The Unseen Genius
by operasrose
Summary: Erik finally launches the plan he's been working on for so long to earn Christine's affections. Everything is perfect until Raoul de Chagny enters Christine's life. What will Erik do when a rival threatens to throw his perfect plan into chaos and, even worse, steal the promise of Christine's affections?
1. Recollections

It was the premiere of the Opera Populaire's new production of Chalumeau's Hannibal. This in itself held no surprise for the audience. The Opera Populaire's schedule was always fairly easy to predict, as the scheduled productions of the season repeated themselves every five to six years. The selections were curated to appeal to the majority of Paris with well received productions such as Carmen, Faust, and the beloved Ill Muto. But as the curtain rose, the audience was treated to a small shock. Expecting to watch yet another performance by Paris's resident diva, the majority of those seated were surprised to see a new star in their midst. At first the audience was less than thrilled to see the familiar face of Carlotta Guidichelli absent, but this was no matter as all thought of Signora Carlotta faded away as the new leading soprano began the aria that opened the Opera and a voice that seemed more divine than mortal washed over them.

The shadow watched Christine Daae with a gaze that burned. Tonight was everything that Erik had ever dreamt of and more. His pupil, the voice that he had cultivated and molded for the past decade was finally receiving the attention and admiration it deserved. His Angel of Music had finally made her debut. His beautiful angel.

Sitting comfortably from his customary seat in Box 5, Erik inwardly rejoiced at the thought of even greater events that would begin unfold in the coming evening. Tonight was to mark the official beginning of the plan that Erik had so carefully formulated for three years. As Act II of Hannibal came to a close and intermission began, Erik let his thoughts wander freely. _Ah my love. Tonight you command all attention._ Three years. The corner of Erik's mouth twitched into the hint of a smile. Has it only been so long? It seemed like a lifetime ago that Erik discovered that his feelings toward the Daae girl were beyond the affection a teacher held for his pupil. He let himself relive the day that irrevocably altered the planned course of his life.

 _Erik quietly walked through the labyrinth that was the Opera Populaire. It was nearly seven o'clock, his arranged time to throw off the mask of the Phantom and don the Angel of Music's. As he approached Christine's dressing room, he slowed and checked his pocket watch. There were still a good ten minutes before his appointed time for Christine's lessons. He had not even realized that he had hurried to the lesson and inwardly chucked at himself as he considered the absurdity of his unconscious actions. He, the great and feared Phantom of the Opera Populaire, waiting for a mere girl, seventeen years his junior. Of course, he was not without reasons._

 _Ever since he had discovered the voice behind the crying little girl in the chapel, he saw his opportunity to leave his mark on humanity, however small. Erik had long recognized that the doors to the world of light were forever barred to him, and, with it, the chance to share his creations with the world. Although he scorned humanity and was glad to be all but completely removed from the world, his soul thought otherwise. The sometimes suffocating urge to create and form forced him to spend euphoric hours that stretched into days in front of the massive organ in his home. In those hours, he birthed divine music that laid bare the human soul and gave a bit of heaven's music to the Earth. However, he knew that in a little over fifty years, Erik's music would die with him, left to rot in the damp, stagnant air of the lake house. As much as this thought pained him, there was nothing he could do to prevent the inevitable. Until he met Christine. Christine, whose vocal gifts equaled his own, could provide him with some small legacy. From the moment he first heard her sing, he realized that he could mold and shape her voice and in some, small way, leave his mark in the world of Music. He imagined Christine singing before the crowned heads of Europe with his spirit soaring through the majesty of her voice, the both of their souls combined into one entity, if but for a fleeting moment._

 _Erik snapped to attention with the sound of footsteps approaching. The door opened and with his heart leapt into his throat. Only then, he realized why he had hurried. The the young girl he had spent so many years tutoring was gone. In her stead, a young woman, flushed with youth and vitality, stood. Christine had grown up without his realizing it. He felt the pang of longing for something that he had not craved in over fifteen years. It was in that moment that Erik realized that his feelings for Christine were so much less than platonic and the longing for love and companionship that had plagued him throughout his life had not been eradicated as he had hoped._

Erik had spent the past three years in an agony. As often as he had desired to, he did not dare to break the facade of the Angel of Music. As much as he craved to reveal himself to Christine and profess his love for her, he was afraid to lose his angel to the shock of realizing that it was a monster who loved her. However, this time, he was determined that he he would break the curse his face held over him. Thus, the plan was formed. For the past year or so, Erik had created and revised this plan until he perceived no flaw in its structure. Over time, Christine would learn to look past the face and find the beauty underneath. But everything needed to be executed with careful, premeditated states or he would face the familiar and real risk of losing his beloved to the curse of his visage. This thought left a bitter taste in Erik's mouth. The all too familiar longing to destroy the right side of his face surfaced. Once more, Erik longed to pull and scratch at his infected face and only cease when his cursed flesh was erased.

These dark thoughts fled from Erik's mind as the curtain rose and the light that Christine's voice radiated penetrated his entire being. He watched the remainder of Christine's performance in a trance-like state. As Hannibal came to an end and Christine soared to the last note of Elissa's aria, Erik fancied he felt his soul rise with her voice and leave his body.

Tonight marked the beginning of the end of Erik' lifetime of loneliness. In the euphoria of her, no their triumph, he would begin the process of breaking Christine's acquaintance with the Angel of Music and finally introduce her to Erik, the man.

 **...**

 **A/N: This is the only time I hope to put something like this at the end, but please let me know if you enjoy this work as it unfolds by favoring/reviewing it. Please don't hesitate to give advice/feedback! Also if you see any grammar/spelling mistakes, please don't hesitate to let me know and I'll correct the offending word(s). Please remember, this is my first published fiction and I am by no means a wordsmith.**

 **In addition, the following disclaimer applies to this and any and all subsequent chapters of _The Unseen Genius_ : I do NOT own or an affiliated with in any way the owners of _The Phantom of the Opera_ musical production, novel(s), or film. This is a strictly non-profit work that exists purely for the enjoyment of phans and to explore an alternate plot. I don't own the characters, I don't own the original story, I own nothing Phantom related. If I did, _Love Never Dies_ would be very different.**

 **Also, please note, due to the constrictions of , I was unable to label the story as it should be. This is a triple genre and contains angst, drama, and tragedy. I'm trying my best not to spoil anything, but something from these three categories triggers you in any way, stop before I diverge from the cannon. If you have any triggers but would like to continue reading, and you need to know if my story will contain any elements of these triggers DO NOT HESITATE to PM me and I'll tell you if there will be any traces of it in the future.**


	2. An Unexpected Visitor

Christine looked out across the audience in wonder. She found it all but inconceivable that these people were cheering for her. Just this morning she was a ballet girl who held little, if any, hope that her position in the Opera Popular would ever be beyond that of a combination chorus girl and second rate ballerina. Although the Angel of Music had often told her "Wait and see, we will take Paris by storm," she was ashamed to admit that she often doubted the credibility of this statement. But then Carlotta threw one of the fits she was so famous for in the Opera.

As the curtain closed and the cast began to make their way back to their respective dressing rooms, Christine lingered on the abandoned stage, savoring the moment. Christine closed her eyes and thought how proud her father might have been if her were alive to see their shared dreams made into reality. She allowed herself to get lost in nostalgia as she remembered one of the last things her father told her, just days before he died. "Christine," he said, "you have been gifted beyond imagination. You must promise me that you will not let your gifts waste away. Such would be a crime. You must promise me that you will share your gift with the world."

Christine was startled out of her thoughts when an angelic voice wafted its way to her, seemingly emulating from the very walls themselves. _Brava, Brava, bravisima_ , it whispered. With these words, a red rose tied with a black ribbon fell from the rafters. Christine picked the rose up off the floor and examined it feverishly. _A gift from the Angel of Music!_ The Angel has never yet seen fit to gift her with anything but mild praise when she did exceptionally well. Christine flushed with pleasure at the thought that she had pleased him. Tonight, she had sung for her Angel and her Angel alone.

Christine heard the sound of footsteps approaching and quickly hid the rose behind one of the many folds in her skirt. She turned around to meet the intruder of her private moment and her gaze fell on Meg Giry. "Christine!" Meg exclaimed, "you were amazing!" as she ran to hug her dear friend. The pair embraced and clung to each other as Meg spun Christine around with sheer delight.

"Tell me, what was it like to be up there on the stage with all of Paris at your feet?" Meg asked breathlessly as the pair came to a stop.

"To be completely honest Meg, I can't quite tell you. Although when I sang I knew that I was up on the stage and before an audience, but it was as if I were walking through a dream."

Meg pouted.

"Christine, as always, you have the wonderful ability to make one feel as if they were there with you. You never tell me anything! Your singing tutor for instance. A perfect example! You do realize you've been taking lessons from him for how many years now and you have not yet found it in your heart to tell me who he is."

Christine inwardly sighed. Meg had pestered her about the identity of her tutor ever since she overheard one of the many singing lessons the Angel of Music gave Christine. However, the euphoria of her triumph lingered in her and she longed to share some of her joy, even if it were giving Meg the pleasure of learning the truth behind her tutor.

"Meg, come and sit. I'll reveal everything while I change." Christine said, leading Meg backstage.

The pair arrived at Christine's dressing room soon enough, however, the time their small journey took was enough to limit Meg's already little patience. Christine no sooner had turned the key in the lock that Meg pleaded "Tell me!"

"First, could you be a dear and undo the buttons on this dress? I can't quite reach them and I don't think the managers would take kindly to my ripping such an expensive costume on my debut night." Christine said, greatly enjoying Meg's frustration.

Meg stormed over to the corner where Christine leaned on the chair on her vanity table. As Meg deftly undid the buttons of the gown, Christine used the opportunity to hide the rose under a scarf lying on the table.

"There. You're free. Now speak." Meg demanded.

Christine stepped out of her dress and walked behind the dressing screen and began to remove the undergarments that accompanied the dress.

"Well, my dearest Meg, I met my tutor in the most unlikely of places ten years ago. It was just after Father died and I first came to train in the ballet corps. During that time I spent most of my free time in the chapel, mourning my Father and praying. I was so alone and I hoped and prayed with all my soul that Father's dying promise would come true. As Father lay dying, his last words to me were 'When I'm in heaven, child, I shall send the Angel of Music down to Earth to protect and teach you were I cannot.' However in those three months after he died, I was alone and had not seen or heard anything that resembled an angel in any form."

But one night, as I cried in the chapel, and lamented in my prayers that the Angel of Music had not yet come for me I heard the most angelic voice that appeared to come from my Father's picture. At first, I was startled and fled from the room. But the next night, the voice returned and I was bold enough to ask the voice to reveal itself for what it was and it replied 'Why, I'm the Angel of Music! I must apologize for my tardiness, the path from Heaven to Earth is not an easy one.' The voice and I then became very good friends and when I mentioned that my Father had hoped that I would become a renounced singer the voice offered to give me lessons. Ten years later, I still wake to the sound of the Angel of Music's songs in my head and the voice lesson that follows it."

As Christine confessed the truth to Meg, her friend's expression changed from unadulterated excitement to that of worry. When Christine stepped back out from behind the screen in plain, everyday clothes, Meg went to her and firmly clasped her shoulders and, with some difficulty, looked at her much taller friend in the eye.

"Christine. I don't mean to doubt the credibility of what you say but... are you completely sure that you have not dreamt this up? Perhaps... you imagined the Angel of Music to recover from your father's death. I know that you loved and still love your father very much."

"No Meg. I know that I have been visited by the Angel of Music."

"But Christine-"

"Meg, I don't expect you to hold my degree of faith in the Angel of Music. Lord knows it took me long enough to accept that I wasn't dreaming. Besides, you're one to talk of madness, you find it easy enough to believe in those ridiculous ghost stories." Christine lightly teased.

"But the Phantom of the Opera IS real! Nearly everyone has seen him! And, if for nothing else, how else would you explain the things only happen to the Opera Populaire?! None of the things that go on here happen in any other Opera houses!"

"Meg, I'm simply saying you have your superstitious and I have mine. Let's agree to disagree about the existence of the other's larger than life figures and not argue."

"Alright Christine, I concede that point. In fact I should be heading back to my flat. Mother will be furious if she doesn't see me in bed at a reasonable time."

Meg started for the door. As she reached for the door handle, she turned around and casually told Christine "Oh by the way in the excitement I forgot why I came to find you. You're expecting a visitor."

"A visitor?! Meg why didn't you tell me before I took off that wretched corset for God's sake!"

Meg snickered " Well you must admit, greeting such a distinguished visitor in everyday wear makes quite an amusing picture. Anyway, the Viscounte Raoul de Chagny demanded the right to see you from the managers. And, as his family is the patron of the Opera, our good managers gladly obliged. Good luck Christine! And don't do anything I wouldn't do when you're alone with your beau!" she called over her shoulder as she closed the door.

Christine sat down on the vanity chair. _Raoul de Chagny._ That was a name she had not heard since before her Father died. Anger flared up in her. _Damn Meg Giry!_ she thought savagely. The only other person in the world who had a connection to her father and she was going to receive him in her pitiful, painfully ordinary dress. Christine didn't even have the time to change into something more formal, as it took an excruciating amount of time to put on the corset and suffocating amount of undergarments required for evening dress. All she could do was wait.

A few moments later, she heard a gentle knock at her door.


	3. Little Lotte

Christine paused for a moment, closed her eyes and drew a deep breath and remained still for a few seconds. Having resigned herself to the inevitable embarrassment, she hesitantly got up and went to the door. She opened the door to a young man with a broad smile plastered to his face. His golden blond hair was fashionable tousled, his complexion fresh as roses, and his eyes held the color of the sky on a crisp spring morning. Her visitor was the very image of a Parisian gentleman, the embodiment that male form writers of the romance genre exalted. Could this be the boy Christine knew so many years ago?

"Christine!" he exclaimed, "how long has it been?"

"Monsieur?"

"Surely you remember the young boy who rescued the red scarf you were so fond of from the sea, Mademoiselle Daaé."

"Raoul! It is you! I thought I had misheard the name of my visitor! I would never have thought you would recognize me after all these years. After all, we were but children when we met. You must tell me, how were you sure it was me on the stage and not someone else who happened to own a face similar to mine?"

"Simple induction, my dear Christine. I could never forget the bewitching voice that so enchanted me all those years. That, coupled with the charming persona you possess and the fact that Daaé is not a common name, convinced me that it had to be little Lotte up on the stage."

Christine laughed, "You remember the nickname as well?"

"My dear, I doubt that there is a single moment of those wonderful times we had together that has slipped through my memory. Remember the wonderful walks along the beach we took?"

Christine smiled fondly as she replied "Looking for treasure before hunger drove us home to have a picnic in the attic."

"Reading to each other the dark stories of the North during the evenings."

"Listening to Father played the violin..."

On this thought, Christine smiled and affectionately clasped Raoul's hand. "Raoul, I can't tell you how wonderful it is to talk to someone who shared one of the happiest times of my life."

"I, too, feel that the summer we spend together was the happiest of my boyhood. When we parted, I often wondered what became of you. A few years after, I considered looking for you, but felt too much time had gone by. Imagine my surprise and joy when I came into the opera, prepared for a rather dull evening of Carlotta's soulless singing and familiar company, and see you on the stage! You were the finest Elyssa to ever grace Hannibal!

Christine lightly blushed and looked down. "Why thank you Raoul, I'm pleased to hear you enjoyed my performance.

"Well my dear, I feel I must confess something. I visited you for a less virtuous reason than reminiscing."

Here he gave a roguish grin.

"My primarily intent was to ask you to supper."

With this admission, Christine felt her happiness to see Raoul whither away. Everything had been going so well! Now what was she to say?

Christine let her gaze drop and meet the floor.

"Raoul...I'm afraid I have to decline."

"I understand. After all this is very short notice. Tomorrow night then."

"I'm sorry to say that I shall have to decline that as well."

Raoul's smile froze on his face, and subtly, his expression changed to that of formal politeness.

"Ah. I... apologize. I should have guessed. It must be difficult to break through to success without being a kept woman of some sort. Although I have to say, I am quite jealous the fellow who you're seeing."

It was now Christine's turn to adopt a mask of cold cordially. She gave a tight smile as she replied "If I interpret your words correctly, the logical reason why I got such a coveted role was because I have a light skirt, no? The truth of the matter is quite the contrary, Monsieur le Viscount. It was through sheer chance I was able to audition earlier today. And regardless of luck, I was on that stage purely as a direct product of any talents I may possess."

Raoul cocked his head to one side. "Then, I'm afraid I don't understand, my dear. If you're not seeing anyone, why can't you share a simple repast with me?"

Christine regretted her words of earlier, now what was she to say? But, on the same note, both choices formed a double edged sword. Which was she to risk, the Angel of Music's wrath or damning rumors a scorned suitor might perpetrate in bitterness? Christine sighed. There was no other choice but to explain her unique position. She would never have guessed that she would admit her deepest, most cherished secret _twice_ in one night.

"Raoul," she began slowly. "Do you remember Father's stories of the Angel of Music?"

"Of course! How could I forget? The Angel who visits every great musician once in their lifetime." Raoul chucked. "Other parents entertained their children with local fairy tales, but true to form, Gustave Daaé found a way to fit his muse into bedtime tales."

"I realize how unlikely and fantastic this sounds, so please keep an open mind Just before Father died, he called me over to his death bed. His last words to me were 'Christine, child. When I'm in heaven I will send you the Angel of Music. He will guide you and protect you.' A few months later, I was visited by the Angel of Music and for the past decade he has been my tutor. It was only through his lessons and instruction I was able to hone my abilities. He is the sole reason for my success. And he has promised to remain my tutor indefinitely on one condition: I devote myself entirely to music. He has made it... very clear that if I were to take a husband, or even allow someone to court me, he would ascend back into heaven, never to return. I'm sure, Raoul, you understand that I can in no way risk losing the Angel of Music's instruction."

Throughout this confession, Raoul became more relaxed and regained his good humor. "Well," Raoul said in attempted seriousness as the hint of a smile played across his face, "I'm sure the Angel won't mind if I take you out to dinner. After all, you were absolutely perfect on the stage and you deserve a little fun, if only for a few hours. I won't keep you up past a reasonable hour and I'll be sure you get home safe."

Here Raoul moved to the door.

"But Raoul the Angel is very strict! You know nothing of-" "Fifteen minutes, little Lotte! I have to go order the carriage and you must change."

Raoul turned back to grin at Christine. "Christine, I really can't find words sufficient to express how happy I am that we crossed paths again."

"Wait!" Christine cried out as the door closed.

Christine froze in naked fear and dread. Numbly, she turned around, sat at her vanity table, and buried her face in her arms. What was she to do? At the moment she desired nothing more than to accept Raoul's invitation and enjoy the evening like anyone else. Raoul was one of the only people she shared a past with, one of the only people who knew her before her Father died. The only person in this world, aside from Madame Valerius, who knew her back when she was bright and outgoing, before she retreated into a shell of shyness and sorrow. Raoul could bring back the girl who died when her Father did, Christine could feel it. And yet...

And yet a part of her was ashamed that she even considered accepting the Viscount's invitation. The Angel of Music had been by her side since she first came to the Opera. The only thing that he asked of her in exchange for lessons, companionship, and understanding was to abandon any Earthly ties of an amorous nature. To go with Raoul was to betray the Angel. She would be unable to conceal this outing from the Angel as well. Being a divine being , he knew Christine better than she knew herself and could see all. He would leave her behind forever, just as he almost did last time. The one and only other suitor who caught Christine's favor had resulted a scathing lecture and earned Christine an antagonistic month of cold silence from the Angel. Only by feverish prayer and oaths of undying loyalty did the Angel return. That month separated from the Angel of Music was a torture that she did not want to endure again. And what if this time, the Angel kept his word and left her for good? Intolerable!

Christine took the one photo she owned of her parents off the vanity table and gazed into her dead father's eyes. _Oh Papa_ she thought _I wish I knew how to have both without losing either_. She sat like that for several moments before replacing the photo in its usual spot and getting up.

She could not lose the Angel of Music over the sake of a young man. Christine had every intention of gathering her things, wrapping her fraying shawl about her, and beginning her nightly journey through the streets of Paris to the apartment she shared with the good Madame Valerius, but before she took two steps, a voice colder than ice radiated throughout the room and stopped her where she stood.

"I see Mademoiselle Daaé is in a hurry to meet her new suitor."


	4. Through the Mirror

Upon the end of her daily music lesson, Christine was frequently left wondering precisely what powers over the mind the Angel possessed. Certainly such a perfect, vibrant voice, teeming with beauty that threatened to surpass that which the human mind could handle, was to be expected from a divine being. What Christine couldn't understand was how a simple word could either bring her crashing to her knees in sorrow or lift her spirit in pure joy. One would think that in all the years Christine had to adjust and become used to the voice, she would be impervious to its curious powers. But such had never been the case and tonight was no exception. The full weight of loathing and disgust was infused into this simple phrase, such that Christine felt the urge to throw herself at his feet to beg for the Angel's forgiveness, even if she had not broken her oath.

"Angel, I hear you. The moment you begin to speak, I listen with all my soul. Worry not, I will not be dining tonight with the Viscount tonight or any night." Christine feverishly whispered.

"Ah my dear, I wish I could believe you. He is going to first fetch his carriage then is going to come back and fetch you. He was quite persistent about it. I understand why you would play the part of the coy minx. Monsieur le Viscount is a handsome boy, save his extravagant fashion, and possesses great wealth and status. Seeing the Viscount de Chagny certainly would not be a poor decision by any judgement. Christine, I fear this is where our long journey ends, regretfully long before you even approached your full potential."

Christine froze in shock. What was the Angel saying? She... She never did any wrong! Raoul de Chagny invited her to dinner and, even if he labored under some delusion that she accepted said invitation, she already made her position perfectly clear! This was an outrage! She had not broken her oath of loyalty! She never had since the day she swore it!

Throughout her career in the Opera, Christine had seen a good many of her colleagues in the ballet whisked away on the arms of the various patrons of the Opera Populaire. Today, a good number of her peers had left the ballet corps to become respectfully married women and the majority of the ones who remained had beaus of their own. Christine, however, as per the Angel's demand, had dedicated her life to music and had dutifully turned away all who came calling since the incident, including the Viscount de Chagny. And now _he_ accused her of being on the verge of breaking her word! She had given all for him and their shared art of music and now the Angel of Music intended to abandon her!

Christine straightened and coldly replied, "Angel. If you were indeed watching, you would have seen that I continually turned away Raoul de Chagny's advances. However, he was blinded by his desire to court me and did not see that my answer was, and still is, no. You certainly cannot hold me accountable for his blindness."

Christine was surprised to hear an undignified snort in response.

"You certainly gave the impression that you were freely available for our Viscount. After all, you were on that stage tonight _through your abilities alone_ if I heard correctly _._ "

"Then what was I to do? It is true, in my desire to retain my dignity I may have given the wrong impression. But I believe I was very clear that you forbid my dining with any man, even an old friend. Perhaps I should have told him that I was indeed a kept woman, with stronger chains than any woman has ever had. Or better yet, a slave who has not even earned the trust of the master she has served faithfully for a decade."

"I...Christine. My apologies." the Angel said slowly. "Truthfully, I was blinded by the rage I felt when I saw that insolent boy who had the gall to address you with such familiarity, standing with you. He who felt that on the night of your glory, our night of triumph, had the right to barge into your life without so much as a proper greeting and give you an invitation to sup. But understand that I do trust you, my dear Christine, more than you know,"

Christine heard these words and realized that the voice sounded different tonight. With this last confession, the Angel seemed almost worldly. Almost... mortal. Indeed, these words lacked the resonance of but a few minutes earlier. Surely a divine being would not feel such... mortal anger and hatred toward a member of the human race.

The curious change in the voice tonight could prove to be an omen of success. If the Angel was not entirely divine, perhaps tonight Christine would finally succeed in persuading the Angel of Music to reveal himself to her. But dare she try the Angel's already thin patience? Oh if only Christine knew where the Angel hid! It would be infinitely easier to hold this conversation with another being, rather than the air surrounding her. But she knew that looking for the place where the Angel hid would be useless. The voice spoke to her from different areas of the room each time they met. Even so, there was certainly no place in the miniscule dressing room sufficient to hid one of God's angels. But despite the memory of past failures, she glanced around the room for a hint of the Angel of Music. But such a task was folly. The room gave no sign of containing an Angel. The faded dressing screen and the small closet, the only objects that could hide anyone were barren. Christine caught sight of her own reflection in the large, tarnished gilt mirror opposite her. A familiar, faint pang of disappointment struck her! She looked so guileless! How could such a woman possibly persuade the Angel of Music to reveal himself?

"Angel, surely by now, you certainly must know of my dedication to you and the art. Over decade you have taught me. During that time I have pledged my soul to you over and over again." Christine paused then quietly continued, "As you know, over the years I've made but a solitary request, the privilege of seeing you."

 **...**

Erik froze. This last sentence may have been a simple remark to Christine but to Erik's ears, they were the stab of a knife. Yes, she had asked this of him several times and each time caused him a world of suffering. He yearned to reveal himself to his love but without the proper conditioning to accept his accursed face, such a folly would likely end in complete disaster. In the past, each and every time he had denied her request, with increasing agitation and sorrow.

He read the hope in her words. He was about to deny her once more, but he bit his tongue back. Tonight was different. They stood at a crossroads. Erik now faced the serious threat of a rival for Christine's future affections. He had also worsened things by releasing his unjust anger on Christine. He cursed himself for such a slip. The only chance for love life would ever give him and his temper might have dashed any hopes.

Erik quickly thought through the possible options present and their likely outcomes. If he dare not show himself or simply left, she would lose faith in him and run into the arms of the thrice-damned de Chagney boy. He knew with the power of his voice, he could charm her into forgetting this request for the night. However, she would not forget forever and would ask again, likely at their next lesson. He thought through similar possibilities of remaining in the shadows, all likely ending in disaster. There was only one plausible option that may yet save his plan.

Erik sighed and quietly asked "You truly wish to see me?"

"Angel, we have known each other for many years and yet we have never truly met. Please, reveal yourself to me."

"Very well Christine," Erik sighed, "At last you shall know me, _see why in shadow I hide. Look at your face in the mirror, I am there inside_." He said, fading his words into perfect song.

Erik reluctantly felt his heart fill with joy as Christine's face lit up. Christine affected him so. Quite against his will, this young maid, almost twenty years his junior, held the key to his soul. A simple smile was enough to sap his formidable strength, her laugh had pushed him to his knees on more than one occasion. _Christine Daaé will be the death of me_ was a thought seldom absent in Erik's mind when he was near her. Her happiness was his happiness, her sorrow was his sorrow. Perhaps this was the right thing to do after all? Perhaps his sweet Christine would see past the wretched exterior with no conditioning needed? Perhaps... No. Cold, uncharitable reason flooded back into Erik's mind. Christine's proximity yielded the predictable, unwanted emotion of hope. Hope was made for the luckier specimens of the human race. Hope was an annoyance to Erik, nothing but a prelude to bitter disappointment. He quelled these rising emotions with the ugly truth: Christine had no knowledge yet of the monster who wore the mask of a gentleman. Unless he tread with great caution, his love would run from his life. Christine was now a hair's breath away from the mirror.

Erik saw her smile softly. "At last," she whispered. This smile was the undoing of his controlled emotions. His chest felt fit to burst with the joy this simple smile brought him.

"Come to your Angel of Music." Erik breathed as he effortlessly opened the mechanism of the tarnished mirror and guided Christine into the labyrinth he called home.


	5. Thoughts

**First, thank you so much to the people who have left reviews! My heart leaps every time I get a review email and all comments are deeply appreciated. Thank you thank you thank you.**

Erik gently led Christine down the corridor behind her dressing room. _This was supposed to happen under happier circumstances!_ he mourned quietly. But at least she was here and he now had a fighting chance. But what to do from this point forward? He and Christine had never spoken without the shadow of a lie hanging over them. She knew nothing of Erik's existence until mere seconds ago! What was he to tell her when she would inevitably ask for the truth? What was he to do when they got to his home under the Opera? Oh God! Erik suddenly realized the state of his underground home. He would never have guessed that he was to have company for the first time in the many years living under the Opera and was woefully caught unprepared. Thankfully, Erik innately was neat and kept his living quarters reasonably tidy, but nevertheless, it was a bachelor's home and could do with cleaning. But, more importantly, what to do with Christine? Make polite conversation for a few hours then send her on her way? No, such would be absurd. Erik had an unforeseen chance to win his love's affections, the least he could do was to make the most of it. Time lost all meaning below the Earth. He certainly could keep her in his home for a few days at least and make the most of the borrowed time. Erik knew he could once more take advantage of his voice and keep her suspicions at bay. He'd accomplished far more difficult tasks using his voice before.

Erik had always been well aware of the power his voice held over people. From an early age, he had trained his voice to give him equal footing in this cruel world that could not see past the horror of his face. The mask he wore to cover his disfigurement was only marginally better than his naked visage, in the sense that people tolerated his presence momentarily rather than chasing him away immediately. The porcelain mask put people on edge and set an unbreakable barrier of suspicion and dislike. But his voice! The one redeeming aspect of the unsightly carcass he was forced to call a body. With the power of his voice, he could have the most stubborn merchant haggle to the price Erik wanted, the crowd of jeering children run behind their mother's skirts, and send the policeman who shadowed Erik out of suspicion on his merry way.

Once, in Persia, the sultana insisted on showing Erik the prized royal cobras were fed. The keeper placed a live bird into the cage of a magnificent specimen, imported from the jungles of India. Immediately, the unfortunate bird sensed the presence of the reptile and desperately tried to escape its fate, frantically seeking an exit where there was none. A sort of cat and mouse game was played between the snake and the bird until the fatal moment when the bird locked eyes with the dancing cobra. The bird was forced to placidly watch as the snake made the strike that would end its life.

In his mind, Erik had always used this as an appropriate figure for the power his voice had over the mind. As he had expected, it had been almost too easy to lure his Angel of Music behind the mirror. For a wild moment, he was afraid that she would request his presence outside the mirror, in her dressing room. It would not have been an unwise decision in any sense. But _thank God_ she was not immune to his voice. If she had refused to follow him behind the mirror, all his hopes and dreams would have died tonight. Because of that fool de Chagny. That boy.

Without realizing it, Raoul de Chagny had caused a world of anger and pain for Erik. Tonight was to have been the start of Erik's plan to win Christine's heart, which would have been difficult enough without the unseen variable of an _attractive_ young man who _shared part of Christine's self-described happiest moments._ Erik had seen the de Chagnys in their box across the theater and seen the young Viscount staring open mouthed at Christine, threatening to spill over the edge of his box in his eagerness. But then again, so had every other young man in the theater. He cursed his stupidity. He should have foreseen the possibility of the Viscount de Chaney inquiring after Christine. Like any person connected to the Opera Populaire, Erik knew that the de Chagny family was _th_ e patrons of the Opera and that the managers often times went out of their way to accommodate the de Chagnys. On one memorable occasion that had caused Erik much amusement, the managers were extraordinarily crossed to refunding an entire box moments before a performance for the use of an exceptionally large group of unexpected guests of the de Chagnys. Why would they deny a simple request such as allowing the youngest de Changy to meet the Populaire's newest stuff leading lady? Erik could have prevented the meeting with some simple ventriloquism, distracting the Viscount until it was too late to meet Christine for instance. But in his happiness, Erik had forgotten to make certain that no unforeseen independent variables would enter his plan.

Instead, as he did every night, Erik had made his way to Christine's dressing room to wait for her to leave the Opera for the night. Then he would make sure his Angel got home safely, unseen from the shadows. Erik knew first-hand what the outside world was capable of and had heard the ballet corps' stories of the men who laid in wait outside the Opera for an unsuspecting victim to enter their midst. Erik swore that this cruel world would not crush Christine's gentle soul if he could help it. She would never know how many times he had quietly knocked out the men who lay in wait for her, how many times he stopped the would be rapists. To the best of Erik's knowledge, Christine didn't realize she attracted quite a bit more unwanted attention than the average woman as she made her way around Paris.

But imagine, imagine Erik's surprise as he came to her dressing room to see a young man asking her to dine with him! Imagine the shock! Tonight was supposed to be for Christine and her thoughts! The rose, a carefully calculated move, was supposed to occupy her thoughts for the night! She was supposed to be filled with delight and astonishment as she received the first of what would be many gifts from the "Angel of Music," each more worldly than the last, until she guessed the secret herself with no intervention from him. Christine was more than clever enough to do it. The only reason she didn't induct the truth yet was because Erik kept up the illusion far, far better than anyone would think a man capable of.

But then the boy introduced new variables into her thoughts. Tonight, Christine's head was supposed to be filled with thoughts of joy, not dreams of love. Subsequently, Erik had overreacted and unjustly accused. And now, he was paying the price for the rashness of his actions.

 **A/N: Sorry for such a short chapter with such little action! But the thing is, I've always wanted to explore the rationale for various actions in the cannon story. I mean, in the context of the musical, why would Erik suddenly decide to reveal himself? Obviously Raoul was the trigger, but how long was he planning on hiding? When did he plan to show himself to the good Mlle. Daaé? And how, as originally intended? And, as a few people have complained than the story is too slow so far, if I jumped into the area where I plan to diverge from the cannon story, it wouldn't make any sense because you wouldn't understand the rationale for any of the actions taken. Patience, my friends, is a virtue. Anyway, I'll try to upload the next chapter in a relatively short period of time. How will Christine react to her shattered perception of the Angel of Music? Will there be another revealing, perhaps of a face? All good things in good time.**


	6. Into Darkness

Christine nervously glanced up at the man by her side. Was this truly her Angel of Music? When she had idly fantasized about the day she would finally gaze at the true form of the Angel, she had always imagined a benevolent figure. An Angel decked in a pallet of heaven's colors, as befitting the beauty of the images the voice invoked in the mind. This man, however, gave no appearance of being affiliated in any way with a kindly Angel of Music. Indeed, this man's image conjured up an image of an Avenging Angel, sent down from Heaven to punish those who dared defy the Almighty.

In the dim light emitting from a small lantern, Christine was just able to make out the man's face. She was mildly surprised at the almost entirely opposite appearance the man offered from that of the man who Christine had conversed with mere moments ago. While Raoul was the sincere charm of boyish grace, this man was the epitome of masculine beauty. His face was a study in sharp angles and linear proportions, the smooth translucency of his skin interrupted only by the sharp outcropping of cheekbone, which led the eye to a strong jawline and chin. A piercing dark eye accentuated this visage, along with a head of black hair, severely combed back. Even the man's body contributed to this impression. He was impressively tall, at least fifteen centimeters above Christine, his lean body cloaked in a black cape over evening dress. Evening dress? _Was he among the faces in the audience earlier tonight?_ Christine wondered.

The pair walked in silence through an odd passage, composed of scaffolding and odd bits of wood. The man broke this tense silence saying "I suppose this is a bit of a shock for you, Christine. The truth of things is often disappointing."

 _The understatement of the nineteenth century_ , Christine dryly thought. This man had masqueraded as the promised Angel of Music for over a decade. He had earned her trust entirely and she often had confided her deepest worries and fears in him. And yet all that time he maintained the farce, apparently with no remorse or guilt. She longed to ask him these questions and demand an answer, but Christine was all too aware of her surroundings. She knew nothing of this man who gripped her hand. If she made him angry, she would be powerless and unable to defend herself. No one would hear her here, wherever she was. At best, he could easily abandon her to endlessly search for a way back to the Opera. Or even worse, he was obviously more powerful than she. If this man decided to force himself upon her, Christine would be unable to stop him. No, at the moment, it would be far wiser to keep this man in a good temper and demand answers later.

"Why didn't you show yourself to be before?" Christine asked quietly.

A flutter of fear raced through Christine as the man's jaw tightened at this question.

"That, Christine, is a question with many answers. One day, perhaps, you will know why."

Christine silently contemplated this. What to say? How to reply? She tried a different topic.

"Where are we going?"

"To the only place that remotely resembles anything fit for a lady in this black place. My house, if such a place can be called so."

Christine stiffened and slowed her pace. His house? What plans did he have for her? A cold chill crept up her back as she guessed at his motives. Oh God! Why had she ever gone with him?

The man felt Christine pull back. Immediately, he stopped and released her hand. "Christine," he quietly said, "You are in no danger here. You have nothing to fear from me."

However, these reassuring words did not have their intended effect on Christine. For as he spoke, he turned to face Christine and, for the first time, she saw the man's full image. Her hand flew to cover her mouth in silent horror as she saw that the previously hidden side of the man's face was covered by a white mask. What sort of man was her false Angel?

The man saw this reaction and frowned. He turned back around and sullenly added "You are in no danger, as long as you do not touch the mask."

He then took hold of Christine's wrist once more and resumed their brisk pace. The silence was unbroken for innumerable moments. Then, just as quickly as it was birthed, the silence between them was broken.

The man turned to Christine and quietly said "This is where the journey becomes difficult, my dear." He led her a bit farther and lifted a section of floor to reveal a small staircase which seemingly endlessly spiraled down into the dark.

"My home lies five levels below the Opera. It's quite a walk and this is the most direct route. Let me know if you get tired. There are slower, less tiring ways of reaching it."

With these words, he led her down the staircase. The pressing dark awakened a subtle claustrophobia in Christine and the silence, save the sound of their footsteps, pressed on her. Not only was she to be trapped by the walls, but now countless layers of earth and stone were to separate her from the surface! She swallowed her panic at this unpleasant thought. Oh how she wanted to turn back and reascend into the world of light! This was no place for Christine! She was a child of the sunshine and open air! And this man, who was he? This strange, masked man who, for some unknown reason, lived beneath the Earth and had tutored her for over a decade. What motivations could he possibly possess? He filled her with fear and yet... and yet a part of her was intrigued by this man against her better judgment. No, he wasn't the Angel of Music but... In a way she couldn't understand, she willingly followed him into the unknown, to learn more about this man who had been by her side for years, hidden in the shadows.

 **A/N:** Thank you so much to the people again who take the time to either follow/fav or review! Special thanks to _Thatphannerd_ , your reviews and encouragement make all the difference in the world to me. Thank you.


	7. The Lake

Christine thought the staircase would never end. The blasted thing just kept spiraling down further and deeper into the dark. Did this man make this exhausting journey everyday for ten years just to tutor her? How on Earth did he manage it? And why would he do such a thing? Christine was far from being someone worthy of such devotion. Christine was just a ballet girl. True, her voice was good but it certainly was not spectacular. Her musical abilities were above average but certainly not of notable magnitude. She inwardly sighed. What was happening? But an hour ago, Christine was in bliss that she had pleased the hard to please Angel of Music and was rejoicing in the triumph that was Hannibal. How could a simple hour so alter the course of one's life?

Finally the staircase came to an end and Christine was surprised to find that the smooth wood had transitioned into a surface of roughly hewn stone under her feet. More than once she stumbled on the jagged surface that harshly sloped even further underground. Was it even possible to go from bad to worse surroundings? The darkness was absolute such that the light of the lantern formed a fragile cocoon of protection around them that was continuously threatened to be swallowed up by the dark.

Christine violently shivered and drew her thin shawl around her. Any sort of gradient from the comfortably cool air of the passages to an unforgivable chill had been curiously absent. Sensing Christine's discomfort, the man turned around and said "Forgive me Christine, I did not have the foresight to see that you're not used to these caves as I am and would be cold. I don't want you to become ill on my account." With this, he deftly undid the buttons on his cape and draped its blessed warmth around Christine. "I hope that this is sufficient." For just a moment too long, he looked at Christine with undisguised affection and tenderness. Then, almost as if he were ashamed, he quickly looked away and said "We must hurry, I will not have your voice suffer from prolonged exposure to the cold."

Had Christine imagined the look of tenderness in his eyes, his voice as he spoke? Or did he really feel such fondness toward her? She mentally shrugged, she would have time enough to pinpoint these nuances later. She drew the clock more closely around her and discreetly lifted the fabric to her face. The cloak held an intoxicating masculine aroma and...Ink? An odd addition yet nevertheless very pleasing to the senses.

Finally, the floor abruptly leveled off and Christine heard the unmistakable sound of water. She soon found herself standing at the edge of a vast lake. She had often heard stories about the Opera Populaire being built over an underground lake but had discarded it with the 'Phantom' as yet another fanciful product of the superstitious employees. And yet the evidence lay but a few meters in front of her. The man gently released her hand and placed the lantern near her feet. "I'm afraid I rarely use the staircase to get down here. I wasn't expecting you to accompany me tonight so I didn't place the boat near this exit. Wait here while go fetch it." and on that note, he walked off into the dark. Just before he was entirely out of the light of the lantern, Christine faintly heard him mutter "What a time to lose the damned thing." She smiled to herself. She didn't know what made this small gesture amusing to her but for one reason or another the idea of the great and feared Phantom of the Opera frustrated over misplacing something as a result of her was almost laughable. In addition, seeing her Angel of Music humanized in this small way was touching. Although a small grain of fear still remained in her, she was eager to learn about the man behind the Angel of Music. What sort of a man was he? Someone who knew an area of the Populaire she didn't know existed a few hours ago, someone who made his home under the ground, someone who sounded like an angel...

In this middle of this train of thought, unexpectedly a drop of icy water fell on Christine's head. Startled, she jumped away from the offending area and violently shivered. The air was frigidly cold and the dark stone around her pulled any stray traces of warmth from the air. She sighed, her breath misting in the damp, stagnant air. Even the cloak, a source of warmth earlier when she was moving, was rapidly losing its heat. Christine sank into a crouch and tried to keep warm as best as she could.

This is how he found her when he returned, huddled near whatever weak warmth the lantern provided, shivering violently, teeth chattering. Christine heard him call her name and turned to look at him. The man quickly rowed the boat to the shore and deftly leaped to the stone floor. The man strode over to Christine, knelt down in front of her, and gently grasped her shoulders. "Christine I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have left you. I don't notice the cold anymore and keep forgetting that you're entirely unused to it. Please forgive me." Christine gently smiled "There's nothing to forgive. I don't know the terrain as you do and likely would have fallen in the lake in my ignorance. Besides, I was tired after the long walk and wanted to rest anyway." This last sentence was an entire lie on Christine's part, if anything she would have liked nothing better than to have gone with him. But the statement had its intended effect as she saw some of the tension in the man's shoulders ease.

The man stood up and offered Christine his hands. She gladly accepted and grasped both firmly as he helped her to her feet. Christine stretched, stiff from sitting in that cramped position for God knows how long, as the man picked up the lantern and fastened it to the front of a small gondola. Christine followed him to the edge of the water and waited as he fussed with something inside. Finally he turned to Christine and offered her his hand. She stepped into the boat, grateful for the man steadying it for her as it threatened to spill over as Christine sat down. He then jumped into the boat himself and began to row the gondola across the dark waters to what waited for Christine on the other side.


	8. The Lake Part II

_**Please forgive me this is unedited I have so many midterms this week so I didn't have a chance to go through it with a fine tooth comb like I normally do and likely won't be able to this week**_

Erik quietly poled the gondola across the Stygian waters that protected his home. He glanced down at his love and saw that she was leaning over the edge of the boat, searching for a glimpse their destination. She stopped shivering at least, he noted. He thought himself foolish when he lavishly draped the gondola with thick rugs and pillows how long ago, but as with anything, he could not restrain himself when he saw the opportunity to create beauty. Even with an object as inconsequential as this gondola, he could not rest until even the wood was generously carved and draped until it resembled something directly out of those he saw in Venice. No, such a comparison was unjust to his work. Indeed, his gondola outshone the best he saw in his travels, it was a work of beauty, fitting an emperor. Of course, it's beauty was even more improved with his love reclined upon it. He smiled at the sight. As wrought with danger this visit was, Erik found that he could not bring himself to regret bringing her bellow the Opera. _I could die happily right here and now_ , he thought to himself. The feeling of her close to him, the feel of her skin… It was so much better than any of his dreams and fantasies. In these few moments, he had never experienced such joy… Or terror.

As much happiness Christine's presence brought Erik, every moment was torture, a sweeter torture than he had ever known. He was constantly terrified that he would say or do something that would frighten her away forever. Although Erik was excellent at intimidation and extortion, his interpersonal skills left quite a bit to be desired. He was trained from birth to simply survive; he had no idea how to proceed in communicating with the intention of anything but ensuring his own existence. Erik had no idea how to create friendship, or even more importantly, attraction. Although he had observed people and made notes on the art of charm, studies and experience were two entirely different concepts. In addition, he was well aware his tempter was another barrier to overcome. He never before saw fit to control himself, what if Christine said something that woke the beast within? What if he could not control himself? Erik steadied his hands as panic threatened to consume him. There were so many unpredictable scenarios! He could not possibly foresee and prepare himself for each one on such short notice! And Christine… Christine was both the balm for and the source of his fraying nerves. The more time he spent actually in Christine's presence as himself, not as the Angel of Music, strengthened his feelings more and more. The longing for her to be his was overpowering! It had never been this strong! But, unrealizing it, she tore down every protection Erik created around his mind. Aside from when he lost his tempter, Erik always was in complete control of his actions. Every move was calculated for his maximum benefit and look at him now. Erik never acted rash until tonight. Tonight was the first time in his thirty-five years of existence that he acted impulsively! And if the way he acted around Christine was any example, his list of impulsive actions was to grow at an alarming rate during his time with Christine. He shook his head. Imagine! Being so bold as to grasp her like that! It was a miracle that she did not flitch! He was unclean, revolting, surely any rational person could sense that and he had been dangerously close to, dare he think it, hugging her. The sight of Christine, cold and vulnerable in the dark, had been nearly too much for him to bear. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to sweep her into his arms and ensure her health and happiness. It was a miracle in itself that he chose the lesser of two evils and simply clutched her shoulders. He would have try and exercise better control of himself in the future. Of course, she did not flinch… Surely that was a good sign as any? And he did plan of keeping her in his home for an extended period of time, and surely she had desires as any woman? Perhaps…

No! He tightened his grip on the pole and leaned against it. He would not think such thoughts about his angel! No! God help him, what was he thinking? Such a foolish notion, he would not taint his Christine! And, even so, she did not know what lay beneath the mask! Even for all his plans and schemes, he could not control the revulsion she was very likely to have once she knew!

"Are you alright?"

A gentle voice broke into Erik's thoughts and his gaze snapped up to meet Christine's. She had gently extended one arm out towards him with a concerned expression. Was he alright? A laughable notion. He felt as if he were to go mad!

Ah. He realized he had stopped poling the gondola for who knows how long and stood against it for dear life.

"I'm perfectly fine, just… Lost in thought" he smoothly replied and with that resumed their journey across the lake.

Thankfully, he was able to force himself not to lose himself to troublesome thoughts for the rest of the journey. Instead, he simply admired his beautiful Christine. Ah, poems were sung and stories wrought about so many women throughout history, but none held a candle to Christine. She would put Helen of Troy to shame! The way her hair fell in loose curls across her slender back, the deepness of her turquoise eyes, her full lips… She personified everything he found beautiful in this world, embodied everything a woman should be. But such was not the depth of Christine's beauty, where most women's beauty stopped with their bodies, Christine's splendor extended to her soul. From his many studies of her, he was convinced that she was among the most benevolent and kind souls to grace humanity. She was everything he loved in the world and everything that had been barred from him throughout his life. How could she ever love a monster as he? His hands began to tremble once more and despair threatened once again to seize control and choke him. He had to try. He had to do that much. Without Christine, Erik had no more reason to live. She was his only hope at salvation. Without her, the world was barren and empty. She was his only chance for happiness. He tightened his jaw. Erik would make this work or he would die trying. He would have a happy ending with Christine. If he was careful, he would win the most invaluable prize the world ever offered.

Finally they came to the shoreline. Erik guided the gondola between a narrow crack in the stone and helped Christine out. As he tied the gondola to a small iron ring hidden in the dark floor, he heard Christine ask "Did you say that you're taking me to your house?"  
He twisted to face her and saw that she had the most adorable confused look on her face. He could not help but smile at her expression.

"Yes, I did."  
"But… Forgive me, but I don't see anything resembling a home."

His smile morphed into a smirk. He did not fault her for her confusion at all, it was easy to miss the opening in the jagged rock that surrounded them, as it should have been, he had not been known as the King of Traps in Persia for nothing!

"That, my dear, is the beauty of camouflage."

With that, he took up the lantern once more, gently clasped Christine's hand once more, and led her to burrow he called home.

 **A/N: I know that many people wanted Christine to see the lair in this chapter but I love writing Erik's thoughts too much. It was far too easy to slip in chapter of internal musings when he would be doing repetitive work all too conductive to deep thought. Besides, I didn't want to write a paragraph like** "Christine looked over the dark water as the man silently poled the gondola along." **If you enjoyed, please leave a review, I welcome all comments, suggestions, and feedback. Or, better yet, give that follow/favorite button a tickle. Thanks!**


	9. The Lair

Christine watched as the man rose and began to walk into the dark, illuminated only by the lantern's dim light. She heard him say over his shoulder "This way, Christine". Not wanting to be consumed by the pressing dark, she quickly moved towards him, stumbling over the rough stone more than once as she shortened the distance between them. The man turned toward the coarse walls and held the light up to them, searching for something as they walked. Suddenly, he stopped and turned to Christine and said "We're here, my dear," gesturing to the dark cave walls as he spoke. Christine scrutinized the area to which he pointed out. This was his house? There was nothing she could see remotely unique about this portion. It was as jagged and irregular as its brothers surrounding it. Confused, she looked to the man and asked "I'm afraid I don't understand. How is this your house?"

He smiled at her and replied "Let me show you." He then took her hand once more and led her to the wall and added "It's a bit of a tight fit at first." He twisted his body and angled it between a narrow crack in the rock, carefully slipping between the entirely unremarkable fissure. Christine followed suite and allowed herself to be consumed by the dark stone.

After a few uncomfortable seconds of moving in this graceless way, chafed front and back by the jagged walls, the small passage finally opened into yet another stone passage. Christine felt a small prick of annoyance. Her former angel certainly seemed to be a paranoid man, taking so many precautions to hide his house. After yet another walk surrounded by the silent stone, the pair reached the end of the constricting passage and stopped in front of a door demurely placed in the stone, as if it had been there since nature created this underground world. Christine looked on in awe. This man certainly had an eye for singular beauty. From what Christine saw in the dim light, this commonplace every day object most people didn't give a second thought to was painstakingly carved with attention to the minutest details. If this one thing was so lavishly adorned, Christine was eager to see what the house had in store. The man reached for the handle and pushed the door open, and gestured for Christine to go inside. Christine happily obliged and stepped into the light spilling out of the doorway.

She was immediately hit with the potent smells of candlewax and ink. It was not difficult to see where the wax smell originated; the entire room was teeming with thick candles that cast the room in a warm, golden glow. As her eyes better adjusted to the brighter sources of light after spending so long in the dark, she took in the details of the room with awe. The small parlor was adorned with such an array of different styles and items that one could not say exactly which theme was followed. A large organ, encircled in scattered sheet music, served as the centerpiece of the room. Opposite this was an elaborate Parisian sofa with a carved table in front of it. An oriental reclining chair lay in the corner, surrounded by various books discarded on the floor. Various sumptuous rugs rested on the dark floor. The entire room was lined with curious cabinets, the top half of which solely housed books and the bottom half apparently serving as a way to display and store various curiosities.

As Christine gazed about her in wonder, she heard the man say "If the look on your face is a reliable indicator, I assume you enjoy what you see." She turned to look at him and saw that he removed his heavy overcoat and hat. He reached for Christine and asked "May I take the cloak?" She shrugged it off and handed it to him and rejoiced in the warmth of the house. As he hung it up on a hook by the door along with his other outerwear she asked "How is your house so warm? I don't see a fireplace or stove anywhere."

"It's quite simple, really. About two floors directly above us are the opera house boilers. The double seal that protects the foundations is essentially hollow. I created a system of piping in this seal that goes to and from my house from the boiler room. I placed a small device there that pulls the cold air from my house. As the air is being pulled out, this creates a vacuum that pulls the hot air from the boiler room to replace it." He shrugged. "Of course, it's not a perfect system by any means. I have no way to control the temperature at this stage and it's dependent on many independent, daily factors."

"That is amazing! I've never heard of such a thing, how did you think of it?"  
"Necessity is the mother of invention, my dear. I was tired of not being able to work comfortably."

As the man spoke, Christine took the opportunity to look at him better in the better light. The mask did not look nearly as ominous as it had earlier. Aside from giving the right side of his face a permanently stern expression, it intrigued Christine more than anything. Why would such a man hide his face? He certainly could not be a wanted man; he would have hid his entire face if he did not want to be recognized. Why else would a man hide half of their face? _Perhaps he's simply eccentric._ Christine thought. He had not given Christine any cause for alarm yet. In fact, he had been more of a gentleman than some of those in high society who Christine had the misfortune to meet over her years at the opera house.

"You certainly have a beautiful house, I've never seen anything like it in my life."  
"Well, I would be quite surprised if you had met another person who made their residence in a cave."

"No, that's not what I meant at all! Although your house is quite clever and unique, I was referring to the way you arranged the room. Where did you ever get so many things?"

"To what are you referring to? The knick-knacks or the furniture? The curios I acquired on my many trips abroad in my youth." He smiled "When I say that each has a story behind it, I don't use the phrase as a poetic device. Most of the furniture I built myself, based on either what I saw abroad or my own ideas."

The pair continued conversing in this fashion, an easy camaraderie between them. Christine learned much about his life, the places he visited, the various skills he picked up, and what brought him to the opera house. They discussed music, art, and the humanities and Christine found that they shared many of the same ideas and thoughts on the subjects. Comfortable conversation passed between them until Christine asked what the man's name was.

"Why do you want to know?" He sharply retorted.

Christine paused in shock. She did not know such a simple question would elicit such a response from him. Personable and friendly mere moments ago, he now glared at down at her as if challenging her to say the wrong thing. She silently cursed herself. Christine forgot that she did not truly know this man who had mislead her for nearly a decade. She needed to be careful; she did not yet know him and could not trust him. If she said the wrong thing, she had no idea of what he might do. Christine had to flatter and please him, if only for her own ensured safety. She slowly began "Well, although I didn't know you were behind the Angel of Music until tonight, I feel that we've known each other for as long as you've taught me. And, I'm unsure how to address you; I would like to put a name to the man behind the voice."  
The man pondered this for a moment.

"Erik," he slowly replied . "You may call me Erik."


	10. Unexpected Events

Erik observed Christine's reaction from the corner of his eye. She was now the second living person in the world who knew Erik's name. Certainly a name, among those who were not cursed with the burden Erik was forced to bear, was a trivial thing, a topic of light conversation. But to Erik, it was more than that. Erik was the identity he created for himself, his birth name cast into the abyss that defined his old life. Erik was the individual who would never again be enslaved, the person who would never more bear the taunts and insults that haunted his early years. Erik, the name most fitting for an opera ghost. Although those fools did not see it, he was the indeed honorable ruler of the opera house. If it wasn't for he, the Opera Populaire would have fallen into disgrace long ago. Without the little suggestions and guidance he gave the managers from time to time, the Populaire might as well have been a dance hall for all those fools knew about music. Yes, Erik fit him quite well. But, for once in his life, he hoped for something that he never before sought: approval.

Much to Erik's relief, he saw Christine smile. "Erik," she said. "It's a pleasure to formally meet you Mousuir Erik, ancien ange de la musique."  
"Let me assure you the pleasure is all mine, La Daaé." he replied with a smile.

"Erik, I am quite curious, do you come from the northern countries?"

Erik paused in surprise. That question was unexpected to say the least. What would prompt such a thought in Christine? He didn't resemble the Slavic people in the remotest sense, unless… He caught a gleam of excitement in his Swedish songbird. Of course. She hoped that they shared a common origin. Briefly, he considered lying and creating a commonality between them, but thought the better of it. After lying to her for a decade, the least he could do was give her a little truth, especially in such a trivial matter.

"Unfortunately, no. Erik is a name of my own choosing."  
Christine's expression morphed into that of puzzlement. He saw her open her mouth to ask a follow up question, but for some reason, she quietly sank back into the sofa. The pair sat in silence like this for a moment. This unsettled Erik. It was easy enough to be close to Christine while idle conversation was passed between them. It was pleasant, a foreign feeling to Erik, and almost made him forget he was actually in the presence of his Angel. Now that awareness flooded into Erik in a rush of nerves and anxiety. Now what was he to do? Everything within reason threatened to flood out of his mind in a panic. He had no experience in dealing with unwanted emotion and was entirely unused to being dependent on another person. Whenever Erik did communicate with other people, he was used to being the one in control. For the majority of his life, he lived in an emotionless world that was colored only by various forms of anger and rage. But everything changed when he met Christine. Now he was the dependent one made a slave by emotion.

But what was he to do? He had to impress Christine, had to make her want to return to him of her own free will. Sitting in a puddle of anxiety on the sofa was not going to help matters any. The voice of reason returned to Erik's thoughts. The house. Yes, that was it. He would show her his house. Although it was nowhere near perfection and was in no way close to his ultimate goals for it, his house was impressive enough for the average pair of eyes. Erik stood up, turned to Christine and asked "Would you like to see the rest of my home? It is a curious thing."

Much to his relief, she stood up to follow him. For a fleeting moment, his attention wavered away from the proposed tour. Christine was so unapologetically beautiful. It would be so easy for him to… He flinched and shook off the offending thought as best as he could. He quickly turned away to collect his thoughts. What was wrong with him? This was the second time this evening he considered sullying his Angel. Could he not be alone with her for an extended period of time without straying? _This traitorous body._ He thought. _This arborous thing wants to ruin me once more._ He turned back to Christine and faced her perplexed expression. He put on a tight smile. "This way my dear." he said as he began to walk towards the dining room.

Unfortunately, there was not a great deal in Erik's home to occupy a significant amount of time. Erik showed her the dining room, the kitchen, and, in pure desperation, his bedroom. He especially regretted this last choice, as it led his thoughts to a path he tried to avoid entirely. However, both a blessing and a disaster occurred when he heard one of his many alarms unexpectedly malfunctioned. The insistent, high pitched buzz, much to Erik's amusement, startled Christine terribly. She turned to him with wide eyes, asking _what in Heaven's name_ that horrible noise was. By the time he located exactly which wire was causing the noise, Christine had curled up in a ball on sofa, trying to block out the noise as best as she could. "I'm afraid I have to go and make some light repairs, my dear. I'll be back shortly." he said over the din. "Please, may I go with you? This buzzing is driving me mad." After much debating, the time of which would have given him ample time to have found the offending spot, repaired it, and returned, he found himself reluctantly leading Christine along the narrow path along the lake. _Of course something would have had to have gone wrong. There can be no other way in my life,_ he bitterly thought. Finally, after much strained searching along the dark wall the wire was strung along, Erik found the spot. In one way or another, likely when Erik had led Christine to his home, the wire had been crushed and lay connected only by a few brittle strands of copper. Erik signed. He would have to shut off the electricity entirely before this could be repaired. He turned to Christine. "Apologies, my dear. This is more complex than I originally hoped. Wait here, I'll be back momentarily." And with that, for the second time that night, he left her standing in the dark.

Presently he returned. Thankfully, it had not taken too long and Christine as chilled as she had been last time. Although that would have been a trick. After seeing Christine's reaction earlier to the unfamiliar cold, Erik had made sure to supply her with his warmest cloak and gloves and even relinquished his overcoat for her use. The repair itself was quick, but nevertheless, an experience he could have gone without. Finally, he was able to turn the electricity back on and wearily asked Christine "How does tea sound?" She murmured her agreement and Erik began to lead her back. However, there was nothing in this world that could have prepared either of them for the coming moments. Christine, in her inexperienced with the jagged terrain of the caves, tripped and unbalanced her and sent her falling into the bitter lake waters.

 **A/N: Eh, sorry if this is a bit sloppy. I got sick the day after Halloween (yay handing out candy to germy little kids) and a) I couldn't write on Sunday like I normally do and b) I just wrote this today and my brain's still a little fuzzy. Anyway, PLEASE let me know what you thought about Chapter 10, or as I like to call it, Erik and the No Good, Awful, Very Bad Evening. Seriously, even if it's just like "Oh this bit works and this doesn't work" or "I liked this bit" you have no idea how much feedback means to me. Writing does NOT come naturally to me and I need to know how I'm going. Thanks!**


	11. Realization

The only thought that permeated Christine's mind was the skin-biting cold that now surrounded her. The chill of the icy waters had shocked her system and knocked the breath out of her as all warmth was pulled into the waters surrounding her. It was too cold even to think about breathing.

No, it was not the pursuit of air that drove Christine's instincts to find the surface of the lake, but rather the need to escape the acute cold. Her feet quickly found purchase on the lake's bottom and she quickly broke the surface of the lake with a gasp. As she stood shivering in the chest high water, too cold in that moment even to move to shore, she heard a voice ring out.

"Christine!" Erik's voice reached her and carried with it a world of relief. He pushed through the water to her side and grasped her shoulders. "Christine, are you injured?" he asked urgently.

"I'm alright, just cold." She replied through chattering teeth "My God, I never thought that there would be anything in this world colder than Sweden in winter."

"Forgive my boldness, but you are chilled to the bone." He replied as he pulled her close and began to make their way through the water to the shore.

The short walk back to Erik's house seemed to last a lifetime to Christine. Never before had she been so thoroughly frozen. _I'll never have cause to complain again when the fire takes a while to start_ , Christine dryly thought. The heavy, now waterlogged, overcoat and cloak Erik insisted she wear only made the chill worse, pulling any stray body warmth away from Christine.

Finally, the pair came to the house. Christine had never before been so grateful for the comforts of civilization. Erik helped her remove the soaked coat and cape, and said "Even if I live under the opera, I have a fully functioning bathroom. Please draw yourself a bath so you don't become ill after that accident. I'm afraid I don't have any women's clothes in my possession, but I'll leave my robe on the sofa for your use. Feel free to use anything I have. I'll go up to your dressing room and fetch you some warm clothes."

Christine bit her lip. It was lovely of Erik to offer to do such a thing for her, but he was forgetting to attend to his own needs.

Christine studied the organ behind Erik with great interest as she quietly said "Erik, you are drenched as well. I… I would not want you to become ill yourself on my account."

Erik snorted. "Christine, all I need is a change of clothes and I'll be fine. You on the other hand are soaked to the skin. I will not have us triumph before all of Paris only to lose it all over a cold. Please ensure this does not happen and take a bath." He gave a tight shrug. "Besides, I'm used to the cold of the caves." He stood firmly, looking down at her, as if daring her to oppose him.

It was too trivial of a matter to argue over and Christine was too uncomfortable to care. If he wanted to make himself sick, that was his affair, not hers. She quietly nodded and began to walk towards the back of the house.

* * *

The bath was heaven on Earth. Christine could not remember a time where the warmth of the water had been so satisfying. But it was over far too soon for Christine. As much as she would have liked to, she could not spend an extended period of time in the warm water and she did not want to be caught in such a compromising position when Erik returned.

With a sigh, she stepped out of and drained the bath, wrapped a towel around herself, and went to fetch the robe. As promised, a luxurious robe hung over the back of the sofa which Christine held up for examination. As with anything Erik possessed, it was finely made, some Eastern design that Christine could not recognize. She eagerly wrapped herself in it, relishing its warmth. Standing in a warm house after a refreshing bath, wrapped in a snug robe… This was the picture of comfort for Christine, with one exception. Although Erik's home was quite cozy, it was still situated inside a cave. The stone floor was only slightly warmer than its counterparts outside and had the effect of ice on Christine's bare feet. She went to check and see if her socks had dried out, but to her dismay she found them still damp. She hated to intrude on Erik's kindness further, but the discomfort of cold feet was great. _Besides_ , she argued with herself, _he said himself the last thing he wants is for me to catch cold and he told me to help myself to anything._

Timidly, she approached Erik's bedroom. She pushed the door open, and tentatively walked in. She did not have much of a chance to examine it before the incident with the wire. Staring down at her on the wall directly opposite the door was a huge musical stave complete with notes. With a start, Christine recognized it as the _Dies Irae_. _A strange choice for a bedroom by any stretch of the imagination. A strange choice for a strange man_.

Directly below this he placed his bed. It was a beautiful thing, carved to resemble a swan. Standing in the corner was an architect's desk, surrounded by piles of discarded designs and half completed sketches. The entire room, barring the wall that held the music, was hung in thick red drapery, casting the room in a sensual glow. Suddenly struck with embarrassment, Christine strode over to a nearby dresser and hastily began to look for the much needed socks. Thankfully, she was not too long in doing so and found the socks with relative ease.

She began to make her way towards the door, but in her haste, the side of the robe brushed against the drapings. She turned to make sure that she had not upset them too bad and went to make sure they were in place. As her fingers grasped the fine material, she realized that the space behind one of the curtains was empty.

Hesitantly, she pulled it back the fine material and peeked inside. Indeed, there was a hidden alcove. She let the curtain fall and quickly stepped back. Erik was full of secrets. Was there no place he touched that did not hide something? What secrets could this possibly hold? Could it be a clue to better understanding this man who simulously thrilled and frightened Christine? Or could it be something horrible such that Christine wished that she had never looked.

Caught in a battle between her curiosity and better judgment, Christine contemplated the potential consequences for her actions. Erik had been gone now for quite some time and if he happened to come back now, she would be caught in an awkward position. But then again, she could always use the socks as an excuse. She knew that if she did not look, she would be forever wondering what Erik took such pains to hide. This was the decisive move in her internal debate and she went to take a nearby candelabrum to better see in the dim light.

Christine steeled herself for whatever she might find and pulled back the curtain. For a wild instant, she thought she saw a ghost. A white figure, almost luminescent in the dark, floated in the darkness. Intrigued, Christine drew closer to the figure. To her horror, incriminating details made themselves known with the illumination of the candles. An intricate wedding dress stood before her on a mannequin. A dark brown wig, curled so that resembled her own hair, was perched on the figure's head, and painstakingly painted on its face were blue eyes, closely resembling her own. Shocked, Christine dropped the candelabrum. The full weight of realization hit her with the force of being struck and she grasped the wall in support.

 _My God_ ,- _I've fallen in a madman's trap_.

Breath became scarce as Christine began to hyperventilate.

 _So this is why he brought me here. To give the underworld a queen. Hades needed a Persephone._

She did not know how long she stood here, gasping for breath, staring in horror at what fate had in store for her. As long as Christine was below the Earth, she was entirely in Erik's power. Her only chance was to somehow, anyhow, charm him into letting her go. Then she could forget the Angel of Music entirely and try to live a normal life.

Collecting herself, she picked up the now extinguished candelabrum, and just before she let the curtain fall, she took a second look at the bride. Its pale arms seemed to stretch out before her, as if beckoning Christine to the fate which lay before her. Filled with fresh horror, she dropped the curtain and ran into the light of the parlor to await Erik's return.

 **A/N: Thank you SO MUCH to the people who have reviewed! It means the world to me and gives me the motivation to update, more or less, weekly. Please let me know what you thought of this chapter! I've been waiting to write this since I started my fic and I'm so excited to have finally posted this!**


	12. Ascending

Erik quickly pulled himself up the ladder. Even when surrounded by complete darkness, he was still able to navigate the labyrinth beneath the Opera Populaire with blinding speed. He smiled as he thought of how he led Christine down hours ago. It took so very long! He only rarely used that particular path, only when he was forced to shop and couldn't easily sling the various packages in a large bag across his back. There was so many faster, albeit more physically straining, ways to travel in Erik's underground kingdom. He knew these passages better than most people knew their lives. At any given area, he was able to quickly draw up a mental map of the surrounding passages, various routes, and most importantly, his traps.

Although memories of Persia left a sour note in his mind, he had to admit the time he spent there had been useful. He had hated jumping at the infamously sadistic Sultana's every whim and had disliked his assigned tasks even more. Although Erik held a grudge against the human race that would never heal, he saw little point in not granting the damned a quick death. What was the point of torture? What pleasure could anyone gain from watching the pain of others and they slowly made their way to their end? The Sultana found abnormal pleasure in watching these painful deaths, the more horrific the better.

Erik sickened as he involuntarily recalled one time when the Sultana discovered a plot to revolt against the monarchy. Erik had been tasked with providing the most gruesome death imaginable, and being addicted to a variety of drugs at the time, was forced to comply. The Sultana keenly observed the some odd five hours the poor souls were forced to watch as various internal organs saw the light of day for the first and last time, and, at the finale, when the victim's hearts were pulled out of their chests, experienced an almost orgasmic reaction.

Erik bit back the wave of nausea that assaulted him.

 _Thank any God that Persia is a memory now._

He paused in his mad trek to the surface and tried to chase away the vile memories. Persia was in the past. Paris was the present. Christine was the future. His sweet Christine.

He conjured up the memory of her smile, her laugh. Her soft eyes, so blue he could drown in their depths. She was truly his angel. If she became his, he would endure all. He would bear any suffering, tolerate any indignity if he knew she waited for him at the end of it all. Couldn't she feel it? They were cut from the same cloth, in essence.

 _The Greeks couldn't have phrased it any better. One soul inhabiting two bodies._

It wasn't his fault humanity had distorted and twisted half of the whole into something monstrous. Erik shook his head. He needed to show Christine the truth and somehow make her see who he truly was, not the appearance he presented.

The plan, something he once thought of as all but indestructible, had crumbled before his eyes, leaving him to grasp at its ashes as they fluttered past him. He was now forced to formulate a new strategy in real time. In a way, he was glad to have a few moments away from Christine, to develop a short-term blue-print until he could plan long-term. He resumed his trek to the surface with newfound determination. He was sure to impress her with his concern for her comfort, going out of his way and potentially risking his health to ensure Christine wanted for nothing, even with such a minute tribulation.

 _Certainly, in a similar situation the boy would not go to such lengths for Christine,_ he thought with a fresh rush of hatred for the Viscount de Chaney.

Erik was almost to the passage which would take him directly to Christine's dressing room. He quickly sidestepped a particularly cunning trap, one of the few lethal ones in his kingdon.

Erik had always thought of the two way mirror as the most vulnerable of the various doors which led to the underworld beneath the Opera. It was far too easy for anyone to draw close to the mirror and notice the shadows behind it. Another close look could reveal the switch which released the counterweight and allowed the mirror to open. As a precaution, Erik had placed several traps in the various passages the mirror opened to, and placed a particularly nasty snare in the passage a bystander would be most likely to take: the large, open corridor directly in front of the mirror. A large trap door, sensitive to any excess pressure, would swing open and allow the trespasser to drop four stories to a quick end, dashed against the top of the cave the lake lay inside of.

Finally Erik reached the halfway point of his journey. With an almost nonchalant flip of his hand, the mirror was opened and Erik stood inside Christine's dressing room. He strode to the large oaken chest, standing by the dressing screen. If Christine took a change of clothes with her to the Opera, it would be in here. The Opera issued every performer such a chest to place their valuables in and, in their superstition, it was an unspoken rule among the actors and dancers to keep a few outfits handy to avoid any wardrobe accidents.

He opened the chest and was pleased to see that Christine was not one to buck a tradition which had existed in the Opera Populaire since before Erik had taken residence in its depths. He rifled through the various layers of cloth and was surprised to find himself indecisive about what to take back to Christine. Should he take her the rose gown, which would be sure to highlight her cream complextion? Or should it be the sapphire dress, almost perfectly matching her eyes? But, would such a choice imply that he was looking at her body, a most ungentlemanly gesture. Would the dull green gown with its high color and long sleeves be more appropriate? Why did such a simple task need to be fraught with so many risks and peril?

Erik snapped out of his deliberating thoughts. Someone was coming to the door. He cursed himself; in his hurry to return to Christine, he had not taken care to lock the door. Silently, he moved to a spot where the door would conceal him when it was opened and began to ready himself. The Punjab lasso slid out of his sleeve and fell into his hand with reassuring weight. If anyone discovered him, they would not live to tell the tale.

A small eternity seemed to pass as the fool fumbled with the lock. It was honestly a miracle that such clumsy oafs were able to successfully run a theater. The majority of the "professionals" that graced the stage moved with the degree of refinement a workhorse possessed.

Finally, the trespasser unlocked the door and with a protesting creak, the door swung open. Erik held his breath as they walked into the room with surprisingly light steps, punctuated with the occasional thud. Erik relaxed at the sound of a familiar walk. As the person stepped fully into the room, he soundlessly closed the door, turned the lock, and stepped into the light.

"Good evening, Madame."


	13. Decisions, Decisions

"Good evening, Madame."

The figure stiffened. With an air of dignity, the woman slowly turned to face the source of the voice.

"Erik." she curtly replied. "Why are you in Christine Daae's dressing room?"

Erik smirked. "For what other purpose than attaining something I sorely lack in my own home?"

With an air of deliberate casualness, he walked to Christine's trunk, pulled out the azure dress that had caught his eye earlier, and folded it across his arm.

Madame Giry raised a well-groomed eyebrow. "I have heard of men with strange tastes, but I never thought you among their ranks."

With an eye on Madame Giry's face, Erik coolly responded "Or perhaps, Giry, there is a beautiful woman in desperate need of clothing waiting for me in my home."

To his great satisfaction, Erik saw Madame Giry's eyes widen with shock as one hand flew to cover her mouth. "Erik… You, Christine… You didn't? Even you wouldn't…"

Brushing imaginary lint off the dress he held, Erik said "As much as I appreciate your faith in my keeping Christine's honor intact, no. There was an entirely freak occurrence that I could not have engineered if I wanted to that resulted in Christine falling in the lake. I'm simply fetching her a pair of dry clothes while she bathes."

"So you've finally done it then, spirited Christine away. I should have guessed it was you, I thought the rumor mill was correct in guessing that the Viscount de Chany took Christine away

Rage suddenly burned throughout Erik. Everyone thought that _boy_ was the one who took Christine away, did they? Although, Erik had to admit, it was preferable to the Opera wondering where their new star could have disappeared to, how _dare_ they assume that such a fop was worthy of even a sliver of time with Erik's Angel.

"Well, Madame, you aren't wrong. Our Viscount was the cause."

"Oh? How so?"  
"That conniving popinjay convinced Christine to join him for dinner. He had the _gall_ to address her with familiarity that had not been earned. I saw the lust in his eyes. Where I see one of God's own, he saw nothing but a pretty face with an all too innocent mind behind it."

Erik's hands clenched.

"I know his type. He is of the _gentlemen_ who prey on chorus and ballet girls. They promise the poor girl the world and leave her with nothing. Christine would have fallen prey and might have had her heart broken by him, or God forbid, a bastard by him. She might have lost the spirit behind her voice, become an empty shell void of her beautiful soul. I was forced to reveal myself. I could not risk losing her to someone as exceptionally unworthy as him."

Madame Giry's eyes softened. "Erik, I understand that you love no one more than Christine, please remember that she does not yet know you. Please give her time for affection to develop and grow. Don't expect her to return your love now; she might become frightened by the… intensity of your feelings toward her."

"You don't think I know that?" Erik hissed. "I have been nothing but respectful and careful around her." Erik looked down at Madame Giry from his considerable height. "I will wait as long as it takes for Christine to return my feelings. I have waited a lifetime for her, I can wait in peace now that there is a chance I too can experience the greatest bliss this world offers."

"I'm glad you understand. By the way," Madame Giry nodded at the dress in Erik's arms "you won't want to take that to Christine."

Erik's brows furrowed in confusion. He held the dress out in front of him for inspection. "I see nothing wrong with it. It will look lovely on Christine, as does everything."  
Madame Giry sighed, walked to Erik, and took the dress out of his hands. "This is satin. If she is cold, it will do nothing to help. The lining is made to be attractive, not comfortable. The corset that goes with this dress requires the aid of another. Unless you're willing to spend a few uncomfortable minutes lacing up a corset, I wouldn't take this one."

Erik involuntarily blushed. He had to admit Giry had an indisputable point. But how was Erik to know about which dresses are paired with different corsets? It was beneath him to use his influence behind the walls of the Opera to intrude on a lady's modesty.

"Well, Madame what would you recommend, as you seem to be experienced in these matters." Erik drawled.

Madame Giry rifled through the nearby trunk and pulled out a dress that was, in Erik's eyes, quite dull. Although it was a lovely shade of crimson, it was unfortunately plain with a simple design.

"This is the most comfortable dress I can find. It's quite soft and it will be warm. Better, it's not made for outwear, so it can be used with a front-lacing corset. You'll also want to take Christine a pair of stockings and maybe a shawl."

The pair spent a few pleasant moments hunting for these various items and arguing over their various advantages and disadvantages.

"The wool shawl is the warmest of the bunch. If Christine is cold, she will want this one."

"The wool, Madame, is uncomfortable and would scratch Christine's wonderfully soft skin. The knit is soft and thus infinitely superior _and_ has the benefit of not looking like something out of your closet."

"Ah, certainly. Because a bachelor who has never spent time with a young lady knows her every wish and preferences."

Finally, they came to an agreement on what Erik was to bring Christine. The red dress lay folded over the dressing screen, along with a dark grey, knitted shawl, thick black stockings, and a pair of black gloves.

Erik surveyed his cargo and nodded in satisfaction. Christine was certain to be impressed with his apparent sense for her wellbeing. An idea struck him and he quickly turned to the dressing table and began rifling through its drawers.

"Erik, you're now crossing the line between being concerned for a young lady and being unsettling."

"Christine will need various toiletries, will she not? I cannot expect her to use my brush, can I? And I do not possess the various items unique to young ladies."

"When will she have a chance to use these things? She'll be back at the Opera in the morning. You'll bring her these things only to bring them back in a few hours."

"You incorrectly assume Christine will be returning to the Opera relatively soon."  
Disbelief and shock colored Madame Giry's expression. With a tremor in her voice, she replied "Erik. You cannot make Christine love you by keeping her prisoner. You must bring her back tonight."

Indignation flooded Erik. First, who was Madame Giry to give _him_ instructions? And as if he would keep Christine prisoner! She was free to leave any time she wished, he simply would not tell her how long she had been below the Earth.

"I will bring her back in my own time. We must seize the opportunities we are given."

"Well what in God's name am I supposed to tell the managers?! She's still a ballet girl by contract, and so I'm expected to know where she is at all times!"  
Erik tossed the various items in the bag he brought along with him. "I don't care. Tell them that a dear friend fell ill in the country and Christine needed to nurse her back to health. Tell them that her time of the month unexpectedly came and she is in too much pain to sing or dance. Or better yet, tell them that you last saw her with the Viscount de Chaney and maybe they had better question him as to the location of Christine Daae. Whatever you decide, send me a note in the usual way tomorrow."

Erik slung the bag over his shoulder and began to walk towards the mirror. He tossed over his shoulder "I trust, Madame, that you'll think of something. Worry not, you'll get a bonus in next month's salary for this."

With that, Erik pressed the spot on the frame that released the counterweight of the mirror and stepped back into the dark.


	14. Return

Christine tried to keep her mind on the book and not on the situation she was in. She didn't see any point in dwelling on things. Once she decided how to get out of this mess all she could do was wait. Yes, she would humor Erik, charm him with any feminine charisma she possessed so that she would be released from his underground kingdom.

 _Certainly, Erik is a likable fellow_ , she mused _. But the dress. What could have possessed him to do such a thing?_

Christine wondered for the umpteenth time what time it was. Erik's home was curiously barren on any clocks, the only one she'd seen was the watch hanging from his waistcoat.

 _It's a good thing Carlotta decided to throw a tantrum Saturday night. I don't have to be back at the Opera until Monday._

Christine sighed and put down her book. After reading the same paragraph six times and still not understanding it, she decided to abandon the affair altogether. _The Count of Monte Crisco_ would be a riveting read under any other circumstance, but at the moment she could not fix her mind on anything other than Erik. From the little Christine knew of him, she knew that Erik could not be entirely sane.

After all, what man claims to be a divine being for over a decade, lives in a sewer, and keeps a model of his pupil in a wedding dress? She should run away from him at the first chance and not look back. But then, why did she have conflicted feelings? Erik seemed to be kind and gentle, and he seemed to understand Christine better than anyone ever did, save her father. Erik understood her passion for music, if anything, his obsession exceeded her own. He was refreshingly different from the usual men who came calling on the ballet corps, those beasts every ballerina was forced to converse with so that those men would maintain their patronage of the Opera.

No matter what redeeming qualities Erik may possess, at the very least, Christine needed to get away from here and clear her thoughts. She needed to get a clearer picture, at the very least. Perhaps in the future, they could talk on neutral ground and Christine could find out the precise nature of Erik's motivations. But that would be something for Christine to ponder once she was back aboveground. At the moment she needed to think about what she could do once Erik returned.

Christine felt the panic she had earlier threaten to return. How on Earth could she face him when she knew the secret the bedroom walls held? It was certainly easy to decide the method of her escape, but planning its execution was an entirely different story. And what if he charmed her into forgetting it when he returned? Erik's voice was splendorous, beauty made audible. Christine found it difficult to keep her head when he spoke to her. But what better way to fight such a thing than facing it head on? Her mouth quirked at an ironic thought.

Unless she played her cards right, Christine would have a lifetime to train herself to resist the power of Erik's voice.

* * *

Erik tied the gondola to shore and, with incredible speed, fetched the bundle and was in the passage that led to his house in mere seconds. He knew he was long overdue with the promised clothes. Madame Giry's unexpected intrusion had cost him precious time, regardless how productive it had been. Erik stopped short of the front door and braced himself for the unavoidable onslaught of emotion when he entered Christine's presence. Erik needed to be charming and personable. He needed to show her the man before she knew of the monster. Christine had to _want_ to return to him. She needed to forget that a mask even existed. Then and only then maybe she would eventually tolerate the horror of Erik's face.

Erik took a breath, gently rapped on the door to make his presence known, and stepped into the room. He searched out Christine and found her asleep on the Grecian couch, clutching a book. She looked so… _adorable_ like that, curls fanned across the fabric, curled in a ball, face smooth and peaceful. Erik's mouth curled in an involuntary smile. He would have been perfectly content for the rest of time to stand there and study the pattern of Christine's breathing, how the candlelight played with the contours of her face, the graceful curve of her spine.

But alas, the moment ended all too soon. Perhaps it was the sound of Erik's knock, perhaps it was the sudden rush of cold air, but whatever the cause, Christine began to stir and sat up with a stretch.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle. I have returned with the promised clothes. I hope that you did not wait too long." Erik said with a fond smile.

Christine turned toward his voice with a smile mirroring Erik's own. But unexpectedly, when their eyes met, Christine's smile froze and the color drained out of her face. Christine's head subtly turned and her eyes flickered to some remote area of the house before meeting Erik's gaze once more. Christine slowly stood up and with unsteady steps made her way to Erik's side.

 _My God, she looks like she saw a ghost!_ _She must be sick! In my stupidity I've let her become ill! I've ruined everything!_

Christine stopped a few feet in front of Erik and was silent.

"Erik", she whispered.

She swayed dangerously and instinctively Erik moved closer to her. This was Christine's undoing. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets and she began to crumple to the ground. Erik dropped the bundle and caught her at the last moment. She lay entirely comatose in his arms, unresponsive to Erik as he called her name and gently shook her.

In a panic, Erik checked Christine's breathing and pulse. He himself almost swooned in relief to find both still in working order. But as wonderful as this finding was, her breathing was still too shallow and her pulse was racing. _Thank God she isn't wearing a corset_. It would have been a wretched affair to explain later if he had to cut it off so that she could breathe normally.

Erik carried her to the bedroom. She would have to sleep off this fainting spell and when she woke, he could better diagnose what caused her to fall unconscious. He tenderly placed her in the center of the bed and went to fetch an extra blanket.

His angel would not grow worse on his watch! He smoothed the thick quilt over her and brushed a wayward tendril of hair from her face. When she woke, hot tea and breakfast would be in order; perhaps she should take another hot bath. Perhaps he would make those blueberry pastries she was so fond of. If she felt up to it, he would give her an exceptionally productive music lesson. She would make incredible progress now that he could instruct her without the inhabitations of speaking through a wall. As he exited the room, he glanced at the recess that held his private madness.

One day, the mad dream would become a reality. One day, it would be Christine in that dress.

Erik had to keep believing that.


	15. Divided

Christine woke to the sound of a violin. Still cocooned in Morpheus's arms, she let the music play with her thoughts. Dimly, she recognized the melody as an old Swedish folk song. She hadn't heard a violin so perfectly played with loving strokes since her father. There was only one other person in the world who knew the nuances of music so well.

 _Erik_.

The sweet calm in Christine's mind was broken and she sat up with a start. The events of the previous night made their way to the front of her mind. Why couldn't she had followed her own plan? Why had she been so consumed by blind panic and anxiety? Seeing him standing there, knowing what he wanted from her… But he did not know that she knew and she had no reason to fear anything as long as she did not give him reason to suspect. Unless he intended her to find it?

Christine got out of bed and silently paced the floor. Why had he not ensured that she could not find the dress? But then, it was covered, it had been pure coincidence that she stumbled upon its secret. Even Erik could not have predicted that she would have been bold enough to enter his bedroom and borrow a pair of socks.

Upon reaching this conclusion, Christine paused and touched the little crucifix around her neck, Christine's only heirloom from her mother. It never failed to bring her peace. She took a deep breath. Christine needed to trust in herself. She needed to trust in God's will. _God helps those who help themselves. And by God I'll get back to the surface if I have to lie, cheat, or beg._

Christine's eyes flew open. Had Erik heard her stir? She cast out her hearing for the sound of a violin and thanked God when she found it. He was playing a different song, something Christine did not recognize. Why had she not heard this particular song before? It was perfection, something Christine would have expected to hear at the gates of heaven. She eagerly hurried to the door, but the sight of her arm clutching the doorknob made her, thankfully, halt. She realized that she was still wearing the robe Erik had lent her. She felt the warmth of her blush creep to the very tips of her ears at the thought of walking into the parlor dressed so. Consumed with sudden embarrassment, she quickly searched out any clothes more decent than her current outfit.

A sudden rush of affection for Erik filled Christine when she saw the clothes laid out for her on the desk chair. She rushed over to them and examined them. How did he know her so well? Erik brought, for one reason or another, Christine's favorite home dress, thick stockings, and, surprisingly, her brush set. Christine quickly donned these blessed clothes and made herself presentable. As she did so, Christine took the liberty of examining the various sketches that littered the desk and the few that were tacked to the wall. How was it possible for one man to have such a fruitful imagination? There were intricate buildings, elaborate fountains, breathtakingly beautiful furniture, exquisite still lifes… And those only made up the very top of the pile. She carefully leafed through the papers. So he did leave the Opera! There were countless sketches of Paris and its inhabitants, of children playing in the street, a couple sitting on a bench, of people enjoying an afternoon in the park. Christine could have spent eternity there, at that architects desk leafing through the drawings, but finally she pulled herself away to finish her ablations.

Finally she was done and pleased to hear that Erik was still playing the beautiful music she heard earlier. Earnestly, she opened the door and all but ran into the parlor.

She found Erik facing away from Christine, surrounded by discarded sheet music. Silently, she walked to him and picked up what appeared to be the first page. _Aminta's Theme_ was the title, written in blood-red ink. Bemused, she tried to remember any references to an Aminta in the operas she was familiar with. There was no such character in any opera she knew, but why had the Opera Populaire not staged this opera? It was heaven's music on Earth, the divine made audible! She studied his face as he played. Concentration furrowed his brow and set his mouth in a hard line. Erik's world had contracted to this one page, this music.

Christine too was engulfed by the music and stood there, unmoving as the melody washed over her senses. She did not know how long she stood there, nor did she care. Christine joined Erik in his world of music and sound. The outside world could have fallen away around the two and they would not have stopped to turn their heads. The music reached its crescendo and at after the finale, they both had to catch their breath.

Christine opened her eyes and looked to Erik. He still had not noticed her presence. Erik silently shook his head and muttered "It's still not right."

Christine smiled and whispered "I think it's perfect."

With a jolt, Erik started and looked at Christine incredulously.

Stunned, Erik asked "How long were you listening?"

"Since midway though the jämn polska"  
Erik pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. "Thank God. Thank God you weren't listening earlier."

"Why?"

"I… I'm ashamed to admit this, but I could not control the urge to play one of my works and prayed that you would stay asleep."

"Erik, there's nothing wrong with any music, especially one that you would write."

Erik jerked away as it he had been stung.

"Don't speak so lightly of what you don't know. Music can be dangerous." he coldly replied.

Christine stopped her line of questioning at this reminder of the man she was dealing with. _I can't upset him_ , she reminded herself. _I can't risk being trapped down here for eternity with no say in the matter_.

Christine held out the sheet music she picked up earlier and quietly asked "Is this one of your compositions too? It's absolutely breathtaking."

Erik's sudden hostility melted away and he smiled. "Yes, I wrote this. A part of a larger work."

"A larger work? What are you composing?"  
"The work of my life, an opera the likes of which the world has never seen before. Don Juan Triumphant."

"Don Juan Triumphant? It sounds wonderful! Could you play some more from it?"  
Erik sadly smiled and gently shook his head.

"Christine…Christine I don't want to hurt you. Don Juan is dangerous and it burns. It burns the very soul from humanity and displays it for all to see. Aminta is the only gentle thing in Don Juan's world, the only redemption he has, so I wrote the music accordingly. While everything else is wrenched and vile, Aminta is all that is good in Don Juan Triumphant. I would not want you to hear such music."

"I understand. Please don't take this the wrong way, but I'm curious, why do you write such a… burning work? Why do you write painful music?"  
Erik's mouth hardened. When he spoke, he sounded as if he was worlds away. "Personal experience."

He put the violin back in its case, bent and gathered the sheet music scattered on the floor, and silently began to put them in order. Christine knew better than to push him for answers and quietly waited for Erik to finish his work. When he was satisfied, he placed the music back on the stand and turned to Christine.

"I took the liberty of preparing breakfast. Shall we?"

Christine smiled. "Certainly."

* * *

Over breakfast, Erik inundated Christine with questions about her health, determined to find out the cause of Christine's fainting spell the night before. No excuse Christine gave satisfied him, no red herring could throw him off the trail. Christine tried to avoid lying altogether, but nothing would deter Erik.

She resigned herself to going to confession at the next chance she got and said "I did not want to be an unpleasant guest by saying this earlier, but… I did not eat anything since lunch yesterday. I suppose that I fainted out of being famished. It happened quite often when I was a child living on the streets with my father, I thought I outgrew it but I suppose I didn't."

This seemed to put an end to Erik's interrogation. He quietly contemplated this and said "I apologize, my dear. I should have been a better host. But you too are partly to blame. You should have taken the liberty of preparing something. Promise me that you won't neglect your needs at the expense of mere niceties while you're here."

"I promise."

Erik smiled and said "Now my dear, once you've finished, are you feeling up to a music lesson? Now that I can help you directly, you can reach your full potential ahead of schedule."

Christine put down her napkin and began to clear the table. Once she finished, she turned to Erik and said "I would like nothing more, maestro."


	16. Uncertain

**A/N Sorry for not updating! Long story short, I was really burned out by last semester and wanted to take a good, long break to rest my brain, writing fanfiction included. Now that college has started again, I'll try to update weekly as I did last year. Hope this extra long chapter makes up for it! Also, let me know what you think! I'm afraid my writing skills got rusty over the last month...**

The happiest hours of Erik's life flew by on gilded wings. Euphoric hours spent with Christine, their angelic voices entwined in godly song, went by in a blur. Time lost all meaning to Erik, stretching to eternity and yet, ironically, it was over all too soon. Monday morning was here and it was time to send Christine back to the upper world. His angel couldn't make her triumph, just to forfeit all by not attending the rehearsals for the coming week's shows.

 _Of course,_ Erik thought with a surge of pride, _Christine's Saturday night triumph will pale in comparison to what is to come._

Indeed, as predicted, Christine's voice flew under the direct guidance of its master. Christine's voice now truly bordered on the divine and was incredibly close to being Erik's equal in all respects. Oh, how Erik would enjoy seeing the fresh looks of astonishment and incredulity on the fat, shiny faces of the managers, enjoy hearing the silent shock of the crowd. Once again, his angel would be the talk of Paris. But of course, first things first, Erik had to return Christine to the upper world before such a thing could occur. Erik's heart sank at this depressing thought and he resumed brooding.

He had only had his Angel for a little more than a day and he had to return her already!

 _How am I supposed to make her see the man behind the monster with only bits and pieces of her days?_

Erik rose from his chair with a sigh and walked toward the kitchen. He had been lost in thought all too long and Christine would wake soon. During her short stay in Erik's home, she had wanted for nothing. Erik attended to Christine's every need and whim, with the attitude of the believer serving their God. Today, the last morning, would be no different.

* * *

It seemed to Erik that the closer the dreaded journey came, the faster time flew. Breakfast raced by and Christine's singing lesson seemed be but a fraction of what it was before.

Oh but he did not want to say the dreaded words! He wanted nothing more than to keep Christine in his home for the rest of time, safe and secure and _his_ in the bowels of the Opera Populaire.

But, whatever ground he made during these few hours would be lost if he kept her prisoner against her will. In a fresh surge of motivation, Erik figuratively braced himself and heard himself say, "My dear, please dress warmly. We're going out."

Christine looked up in surprise at Erik from the new aria she was examining.

"Out? Why? Is there something you want to show me?"  
"In a way, yes. A quick way to the surface."  
"The surface? Is it Monday?"  
"Yes, it is. Time does have a way of slipping through one's fingers and it is suddenly Monday meaning those fools who run my theater will be missing you. Also," Erik added, "worry not about your spare clothes and possessions. I shall bring them to your dressing room before this afternoon's rehearsals."

But an instant passed for Erik and Christine stood before him, wearing the heavy clothes needed for her to withstand the cold outdoors. Ah, how delectable Christine managed to look regardless of dress! Lithe, notwithstanding the added bulk of the coat, and her face framed by the hat was absolutely divine. How was it possible for a human to be so perfect in every way? Erik forced himself to advert his gaze before his staring was entirely obvious. Oh, why did he have to lead this sublime creature from his home? He needed to get this over with before the compulsion was too strong.

His gaze wandered and landed upon the door of his home. Good God, he nearly forgot! Erik would not have his angel shiver as she did on the way here. No, Erik would make sure to err on the side of caution with all things concerning Christine. He took another look at Christine. It appeared that she would be warm enough for the trip across the lake. But nevertheless, just to be sure, Erik fetched his overcoat and held it out for Christine.

To his surprise, Erik saw Christine discreetly roll her eyes. With a small smile on her face, Christine said, "Surely you don't think I need to dress for sub-zero temperatures for a short ride across the lake!"

Erik was taken aback. What did she mean?

 _How can Christine think that she can risk an illness, just avoid wearing another layer of clothing!_

"Christine, I understand, but please humor a music teacher's whims. It would be devastating to me if your voice was damaged by a cold caused by my taking you to my home."

Christine smiled, shook her head and, thankfully, accepted Erik's help in putting on the coat.

* * *

Happily, the ride across the lake was not the silence of Charon's boat that had been on Saturday night. Christine was enchanted by Erik's gondola and ceaselessly asked him where he got it, how he make it, what inspired its design, and just when did he go to Venice and what was it like?

As he poled the boat across the lake, Erik painted a picture for Christine of the floating town he once visited, described to her the beautiful decaying buildings, the way the singing of the gondola polers drifted across the silent night waters, and the architecture.

God, the architecture! Erik hadn't thought about Venice's architecture in so long! He found himself lecturing Christine about the genius of those who built Venice, how they created and found beauty in one of the most unlikely places.

Suddenly, he stopped himself.

"I'm afraid I bore you with my ramblings." he apologized.

Christine sat up, and replied, "No! Not at all! It's wonderful to watch you talk about a subject that interests you, your eyes sparkle and your whole body comes alive. Please go on."  
And so Erik resumed talking, albeit turning into the shadows so Christine could not see the blush that had unexpectedly colored his face.

* * *

Erik led Christine up the road out of the cave. This time, Erik noted happily, Christine seemed much surer of herself as she walked up the pitted path. Although she still stumbled a few times, she moved much quicker and with confidence. But time still moved relentlessly, pushing Erik aside in its flow. The ground seemed to metemorphasize from rock to sand and finally to smooth planks of its own accord and suddenly the path branched off in three directions.

At this crossroads, Erik stopped Christine and asked "Do you think you can remember the path I'm going to show you from here? I don't mind marking the passage for you, but I would prefer not to run the risk of some fool stumbling down here."  
"I've always had a good sense of direction, I can remember with no help. Also," Christine suddenly said meekly, "please don't take offence, but why do you want me to know the way?"

Despair filled Erik once again, thoroughly driving out the hope and happiness of before.

 _Of course, why would she think about seeing me again?_

Even with such a good heart, why would any sane person consider spending their free time with the opera fiend? What would Christine want to do with such a monster?

"I simply thought, oh such a foolish thought! I thought that you might want to know a way down to my house that wouldn't require you going through your dressing mirror. A faster way, a more dignified way. And that perhaps you would want to visit me of your own accord. But it is no matter. Forget I said anything. Come we must return." Erik replied miserably.

He began to walk forward, holding the lantern up in a futile effort to chase away the darkness that was suddenly threatened to swallow him whole. Erik suddenly felt a hand grip his sleeve and gently tug him back. Stunned, Erik turned to face Christine.

Christine smiled and again touched Erik's arm, but with such warmth and affection Erik could only stare at her in shock.

"Erik, I would never have dreamed that I would be granted such a privilege. I am truly flattered. But you will still tutor me daily, will you not? I would much prefer walking down to your house with you. But I will learn this route, so maybe one day I can take up your offer."  
What was Erik hearing? She was _considering_ returning to the monster? Christine called visiting Erik a _privilege_? These few words…

To his horror, Erik felt tears rise to his eyes accompanied by a small, stupid smile that refused to dissipate. No! He would not cry! Not in front of Christine! But regardless, such small simple words…

Erik could have kissed the hem of Christine's dress; he would have groveled at her feet in gratitude.

 _Anything! Anything for my Angel! She only need ask and I would be her willing slave for eternity!_

"You are very kind, Christine," was all Erik could manage to say.

Before he could do anything foolish in his joy, such as profess his love for Christine right then and there, he quickly turned away, grasped Christine's hand, and began to lead her once more into the dark.

* * *

Predictably, Christine was shocked at the sight of the furnace stokers of the Opera House. There was no chance of being seen by these workers, the pair passed by far enough away and in the shadows nonetheless, but the furnace system was clearly visible from their vantage point.

What Erik didn't expect was the precise reason for Christine's shock.

"So the tales are true!" she gasped.

Erik snorted and looked down at Christine.

"Tales? Surely you never believed in that superstitious nonsense perpetrated by the privileged."

"I have heard stories of such demons who live under the opera, attending to the very fires of hell! And here they are! Look! They are black as soot and those things… Those huge vessels of fire! I can feel the heat all the way from here!"

This was simply too much for Erik, especially coming from Christine. Before he could stop himself, Erik glared at Christine through the corners of his eyes and sneered, "Demons simply because they live in the Earth? I suppose that makes me Lucifer then!"

Christine looked up at Erik, fear shining in her sapphire eyes.

Immediately, Erik was ashamed and regretted his outburst. Who was he to act like a perfect beast to such an angelic creature! He deserved each and every injustice for acting in such a way! She had each and every right to refuse to see him again!

"Christine!" he quickly said, "Forgive me, I should not have released the ire for those who put those people here on you."

"No, it is I who should be sorry, I acted like a child. I… I just heard nothing but the Opera house stories for how many years now." Christine replied, looking away.

She paused.

"And I suppose the superstition of the Opera rubbed off on me."

Erik sighed and stopped Christine.

"Look," he said pointing to the figures in the distance, "Christine, those are people. Ordinary people, nothing remotely demonic about them. But unfortunately, these people are at the very bottom of the Parisian social latter. They are the pariahs of our society. The ex-convicts, those who grew up in slums, the bankrupt. This is but a step up from begging in the streets. After all, who wants to spend their life toiling for the comfort of the better off? But they feel that it is better to serve in heaven than to reign in hell. They should be commended, not shunned. So tell me, how do you think these people react when some dancer or patron, either position heaven in the eyes of these people, comes down to gape and gawk at them? Of course they frighten the unlucky bastard off!"

Christine looked down at the floor, a blush delicately coloring her cheeks. With the look of a child being scolded, she took another look at the workers and said, "I never thought of it that way."

She shook her head.

"I suppose it is our nature to take what is said as the truth without considering the alternative. Those poor creatures… I keep forgetting that Paris is so different than the rest of Europe in its prejudices. I wish I knew why the French loath the poor and unfortunate so much." Christine looked at Erik.

"Forgive me. I shouldn't have acted so foolishly."

Erik nonchalantly waved his hand. "There is nothing to forgive. You understand now, that's what is important. If the rest of Paris was as humane and civil as you and I, the condition of the human race would be so much better. Come now, let's continue."

It was only a short walk to the staircase from that point. Erik watched with amusement as Christine looked up apprehensively at the soaring flight of stairs, seemingly twisting to the heavens.

"I know it looks intimidating now, but you'll soon get used to it and won't even notice it's height."

"Where in the Opera does it end up? Which dressing room?"  
Erik smiled and replied, "None. This takes you up to the Rue Scribe side of the Opera House."

Christine's eyes widened and she took another look at the stairs.

She turned to Erik and said, incredulously, "How did you ever manage to build such a thing?"  
Erik laughed, throwing his head back. Did Christine truly think him so skilled as to construct a staircase entirely out of metal, standing nearly twelve meters high, singlehandedly?

"Even I am not so capable to create this myself! I would need to be a God to do such a thing, although I do appreciate your faith in my abilities. Its story is much more mundane. This used to be a secret entrance for the Communards, back when the Populaire was used for housing war materials. The door was originally sealed off after the war, but I made some modifications and now with this key," he said, pulling said key out of the air with a flourish, "one can come and go like the ghost I pretend to be."

Erik pressed the key into Christine's palm and held her small, delicate hand between the two of his.

"I would like you to have this and please use it. Don't worry about propriety or social restrictions, you have no better, more faithful and respectful friend in the entire world than myself. Visit me anytime you wish. I will hear you no matter where you are along the lake, and if I am not home, please take the gondola across the lake yourself."

Christine's brow furrowed.

"I realize how ignorant this may sound, but how would you get across the lake if I were to take the gondola?"  
Erik smiled.

"I have my ways. After all, I am Monsieur Fantome de le Opera! Now hurry my dear, you must prepare for today's rehearsals."

Christine began to walk toward the staircase, but just before her hand grasped the rails, she paused, turned around and asked in a quiet voice, "When will I see you again, Erik?"  
"If you wish to see me before our lesson tomorrow morning, be in your dressing room an hour after rehearsals."

"Alright, and thank you Erik. For now, good bye."

Seized by entirely uncontrollable impulse, Erik suddenly strode over to Christine and gracefully bent to press a gentle kiss on Christine's hand, straightened and looked into her eyes. He searched her face, silently hoping, longing, pleading.

"Adieu, my dear."

Erik held Christine's hand for as long as possible, forcing himself to let it slip out of his grasp as Christine began to ascend the staircase, key in hand.

As she drew out of sight, Erik's smile began to fade and once she could no longer see his face, and his features reassembled themselves into that of complete sadness and longing.

The further away Christine drew away from Erik, the emptier grew Erik's soul. The urge to run up the staircase and spirit Christine back into the depths of the Opera, never to return to the world above, was almost overpowering.

Erik could only stand there and watch Christine's figure grow smaller and smaller until it finally disappeared with a sudden burst of light.

 _If only, if only._

 _If only Christine could love Erik as he loves her._

 _But, all hope is futile._

 _For who could ever learn to love a beast?_


	17. Freedom?

Christine pushed the door open and stepped into the light of freedom. Immediately, she threw her arm up to shade her eyes as she struggled to adjust to its brilliance. Blinking rapidly, Christine struggled to make sense of her surroundings. She was indeed on Rue Scribe, as Erik promised. Her heart leapt at the familiar surroundings, Christine delighted in everything offered by these simple, familiar surroundings. The cobbled stones under her feet seemed as nostalgic and dear to her heart as old friends, the rough stone of the wall under her hand was the most joyous sensation.

 _Free! I am no longer in his power, I do not need to fear any longer!_

Christine drew a deep breath and savored every promise it contained: freedom, warmth, sunlight. Christine opened her eyes and relished the scene before her. How had she forgotten what it was to be out in the open, entirely unconfined, in but a little more than a day?

Christine estimated it to be about ten in the morning, judging from the shadows and the hint of chill that remained in the air, giving her a few hours to attend to her various errands before she returned to the Opera Populaire.

So much to do before rehearsals this afternoon!

Christine stretched, rejoicing in the feeling of being entirely unconfined. But as she did so, Christine felt the teeth of the key dig into her hand and with it, knives buried themselves in her soul.

 _Dear God! Erik!_

With a heavy heart, Christine remembered every foolish promise, a desperate effort to buy her freedom.

 _I promised to go back to him._

Christine turned around to face the door which led to Erik's kingdom. For a few seconds, she was forced to search until she found the small grooves which marked its edges. Upon closer inspection, she found a small keyhole which was all too easy to mistake for an irregularity in the stone. Had she not just come through that same door, she would have had a hard time even considering its existence. But of course, why would Christine expect anything less from Erik?

 _After all, he does take such pains to hide his existence. Why should this be any different?_

Would Christine ever gather the courage to approach this small door and willing return to the dark? Or to the destiny Erik clearly hoped she would fulfill? Christine felt anxiety brush the edges of her being, the panic she had earlier threatened to return. She turned and hurried away. Christine had to remove herself from the situation, if only for a few hours. She needed to reconsider this, from the comfort and familiarity of her own room.

Christine could not deny, even to herself, the pull she felt toward Erik. Against all better instincts, she found herself fascinated by the mysterious Erik.

Christine shook her head. She was being foolish. She saw the evidence in front of her own eyes. A mannequin made in her image wearing a wedding dress of all things! What further proof did she require to charge Erik as not being entirely sane, or safe? And during the time she spent with him, he had devoted himself entirely to two things: music and Christine. _Not the marks of a rational man!_ she scolded herself.

Christine's heart leapt as the small crumbling grey building came into her sight. Who could have thought a small, unfashionable flat could hold such happiness? She found herself hurrying to the staircase. Ah to be back in the world that held Madame Valarius and Christine's small garden!

Christine's train of thought suddenly stopped short. She had entirely forgotten about Madame Valarius! What would she tell the woman who had been like a mother to Christine for how many years? She had never lied before to the good Madame, there had never been a need. The Angel of Music had taken Christine under his wing just as the urges of rebellion and deceit were beginning to take hold of Christine's soul and drove them out before those horrid feelings had a chance to mature. Christine spent what was for most people, the most trying time of her life devoted entirely to music and her Angel. Madame Valarius knew all and, holding God in even higher esteem than Christine, encouraged Christine's lessons with the Angel of Music.

Christine internally shrugged her shoulders. She would tell Madame the truth, that the Angel of Music had spirited her away and how they spent countless hours with no thought but the music of their voices.

Christine simply would not tell Madame the truth behind the Angel.

By this time, Christine had reached the familiar green door that lead into the flat. She slowly opened the door, in a futile effort to quiet the inevitable creak. The flat stood before her in all its tarnished glory, a artifact of days past. It was old fashioned to say the least and the odor of decay permeated its every corner, but it was home, second only to the Opera Populaire.

Christine tiptoed towards Madame's room and peeked inside.

Thankfully, the old woman was sleeping. Of course, such was not a surprising thing. Madame Valarius had been suffering from the wasting sickness for many, many years now and spent most of the day in the painless clutches of sleep.

Regardless, Christine walked over to the bed, sat in the chair at its side, and put her hand over the old woman's. Alas, if only Christine could confide all in Madame! Madame, in her many years of wisdom, surely could council Christine in the best course of action.

But Christine could not be so selfish as to burden Madame's mind with her problems. Especially with such an incredulous story! Madame had enough worries in her life and had at last made entire peace with her condition. No, Christine could not risk jeopardizing that peace!

But there was no one else to turn to! The only other women in Christine's life were Madame and Meg Giry and the maid Christine hired to look after the flat. If Saturday night's conversation with Meg would not have been, Christine would have foolishly told Meg all. But Meg's doubt that Christine was entirely sane and truthful was far more than enough for Christine to push all thought of trusting Meg with an even greater secret aside. If Christine even hinted that a musical genius made his abode under the Opera Populaire, Meg would surely be the first to turn Christine over to the madhouse.

Christine cursed her past foolishness. Why had she spent the last decade with no thought but the Angel of Music! If only she had done as any other girl would have done and befriended more of her fellow dancers! She might not be alone in her burden now if she had!

Christine sat entirely absorbed in thought until she heard the small clock on the fireplace mantle quietly chime twelve. It was getting late.

She wrote a quick note for Madame explaining what had happened and rose. She had to prepare supper for Madame Valarius and herself before she changed into a different dress. But, as she walked through the drawing room to the kitchen, she caught glimpse of the small garden she kept on the balcony. Good Lord, were the plants wilting?! She hurried and threw the twin French doors open.

Yes, the flowers Christine took such pains to cultivate were indeed tinged with brown around the edges. That foolish maid! Christine had told her countless times to water the plants after the flat was cleaned, but the girl seemed unable to understand instructions that deviated in the slightest way from customary maid work.

Christine hurried to fetch some water and bestowed the blessing of life onto the flowers. These flowers were the only bit of nature Christine had daily access to here in the heart of Paris. Even if it had been over a decade since Christine had lived in the lush forests of Sweden, she could not bring herself to lose contact with nature entirely. With her schedule, frequent visits to the Bois were out of the question so Christine had made the compromise of bringing a bit of the landscape she so cherished into her home.

Ah, this was contentment for Christine, standing in the brilliant sunlight, watching the soil return to a rich black, while humming an operatic tune.

 _It's a shame Erik can't share the same pleasure._

The unexpected thought jogged her out of her serenity. Erik. How did he have the ability to sneak into her thoughts, so far from the Opera Populaire? He had no right to intrude on a moment such as this!

What truth stood behind such a thought anyway? Aside from the mask, there was no reason Erik couldn't walk about Paris in broad daylight. After all, Christine did see the evidence that Erik went about Paris, she herself had admired the various sketches of Paris and its inhabitants on his desk.

What secret did the mask hide, if any? For all Christine knew, the mask was simply an instrument to prevent Christine from recognizing him in Paris. And why was he guarded about the fact he wore a mask? Every time any strand of conversation even approached the topic, he shut down and Christine was forced to change the subject before something happened.

Though he clearly tried, Erik could not hide his dark moods from Christine. At seemingly random points in conversation, his mood would suddenly change and he would become depressed and sullen. Then a few moments later, he would try to animate himself into a more joyous, carefree persona, with poor results.

Of course, Christine was not so foolish as to ask what was wrong, lest he refuse to lead her back to the surface, or worse. No, she pretended that she did not notice the change at all and managed to appear lighthearted during her stay at Erik's house.

Christine sighed. She was running short on time as it was, and she could not devote any more time to her plants and dwelling on Erik. She divided the remaining water among the various flowers and turned to go back inside.

But regardless of what she did or the pains she took to steer her thoughts to more pleasant topics, the topic of Erik remained firmly entrenched in her mind.

Though she tried to convince herself otherwise, Christine knew what decision she had reached.

She would see Erik again.

Christine would solve the mystery of the mask and of the man behind it.


	18. Curiousity

_Damnable curiosity!_

Christine hurried through various small alleyways and less than honest streets in an effort to get to the Opera Populaire on time.

 _Why do I even consider such a thing? Why do I willingly go back to a madman?!_

Christine was caught in a war with herself. She knew that she would indeed continue her music lessons with Erik, and would likely return to his house on the lake, but detested the thought at the same time.

 _Any rational person would run from the same situation once grated the opportunity and yet I run back!_

Curiosity, you see, had always been Christine's fatal flaw, her hamartia. Once something or another had caught her interest, she would see it through until the very end, until she had either found the information she sought or no longer had the opportunity to do so. This trait had caused her much trouble over the years, from the time she made herself deathly sick as a little girl because she was determined to see the validity of the legends of the elves that danced by night to various adventures in cooking. On one particularly noteworthy occasion, during her first month training as a ballerina for the Opera Populaire, Christine released a trap door midway through dress rehearsals and sent La Carlotta on an expected trip, all because Christine could not resist seeing what would happen if she pulled one of the many levers all the cast was warned to stay far, far away from.

Erik was now Christine's new interest. After all, what sort of a man lived several hundred feet under one of the world's foremost cultural pillars, hid his face with a mask, and wore the guise of an angel for over a decade? As much as she hated herself for it, Christine would be compelled to return to Erik, not by any power he wielded over her, but rather under the duress of curiosity. She would solve the mystery of the man, would understand whatever reasons he had for his unorthodox behaviors, no matter the cost.

Christine had no other choice.

But she still despised the idea. To be forced into something, even by herself, was an idea Christine absolutely detested. After Christine's father died, Christine had not been the mistress of her own actions for many, many years. Forced into ballet school because being trained to sing was more expensive than being trained to dance, forced to be the quiet, placid girl society expected her to be, forced to live as the last in her family…

But this is not to say that the good Valarius family was unkind to her. Indeed, they treated Christine like the daughter they never had. But Christine had always understood she was a charity case, only taken in because she had nowhere else to go. She could no longer be the free, laughing girl she had been in Sweden and when she traveled with her father. Instead, she had to be quiet, seen but never heard. In order to survive, Christine had to live and act the way society expected her to. Circumstance had taken any decisions for the course of her life out of her hands, utterly alien and obscene to her.

Christine had often been told she had too much of her father in her.

Indeed, free-spirited, independent Gustave Daae had instilled many of his qualities in his daughter before he died, including a revulsion of being controlled in any way, and Christine was only too proud of it.

Christine sighed. There was no use berating herself over and over again with no resolution. She knew what she would do, and reevaluate the situation after her music lesson with Erik tomorrow. For now, she needed to clear her mind and focus on the task at hand. Certainly she had done well as La Carlotta's understudy, but she did not yet know if she would continue playing Elyssa, or go back to her previous role as a slave girl, and continue perfecting her line in Act I, Scene III: "The Romans!"

Anxiety ate at the edge of her soul. How she dreaded today's rehersal! Drastic success was never looked upon kindly behind the curtain of the Opera Populaire where a strict class system existed for the cast members. What glares would she have to endure from her comrades in the ballet corps? How many whispered words and conversations about her would she overhead? What stories about her sudden disappearance would float around the Opera for the next few weeks? Although, there was one small blessing; thankfully she did not have to worry about creating a story to excuse her absence.

Christine took out the note, opened and reread it as she walked. Although she had memorized it by now, she still could not comprehend who would send such a thing.

"The managers and the Viscount de Chagny believe that you became ill from the excitement of your premiere."

She had found the note mixed in with the various letters and bills in this morning's mail. Not a soul other than Erik, to her knowledge, knew about her stay in his home, and only a select few knew where she lived. Erik had not sent this, of that she was certain. She had seen a bit of his handwriting on an aria he corrected for her. He had claimed that she did not sing a cadenza with enough emotion and, in a fit of frustration, had underlined the offending passage and had written in "Passionately!"

Although Christine could not contest Erik's brilliance, his penmanship left quite a bit to be desired. When he initially handed her the corrections, it took her quite a while to see that he had not actually been checking if there was ink in the quill. The handwriting on this note was far too fine and delicate for Erik.

But in the end, it did not matter who this anonymous savior was, this was simply one less problem for Christine to worry about.

The Opera Populaire was coming into sight now; just Christine heard the clock that stood a few blocks away chime a quarter to three. Christine shoved the note into her bag and began to run. Rehearsals started at three o'clock sharp and she certainly could not be tardy when she stood poised to become the Opera Populaire's new leading lady. She still had so much to do before she walked onstage. At the very least, she needed to change into her costume and do the breathing exercises the Angel of Mu – _Erik_ – insisted helped her sing and improved her technique.

 **A/N: Sorry for a short, late chapter! I'm suffering from a combination of writer's block and lack of motivation right now... Anyway it would mean a lot to me if you'd take the time to review and let me know what you think/give me feedback. Thanks!**

 **A/N/N: Also, I couldn't resist, I had to write a one-shot for the scene where Christine sends Carlotta though the trap door. But, I'll post it separately so it doesn't detract from reading the overall story, check it out under my profile! (And let me know if you read it/what you think?)**


	19. Duality

Christine hurried out of her dressing room, finishing her dressing as she did so. Why did these costumes need to be so intricate? Yes the effect was lovely onstage and during better moments Christine adored the details that graced even the lowliest costume, but at this time Christine would have liked nothing better than to be dressed in a simple cotton shift. She was running horridly late, made later by needing to tie an almost obscene number of ribbons and button too many buttons for her taste. Even now, as she jogged down the cramped hallway, she still was not yet done, trying to button the last few stubborn areas of the sleeve.

She walked onstage two minutes past the hour. Christine was late. A rich blush stained her cheeks in shame as she took her place among the performers. She could feel their eyes boring into her back in absolute disgust and loathing. Here she was, only days into her breakthrough and she was already acting like she was resident diva, the ungrateful little minx!

Christine could not blame them. If a similar incident would have occurred which she was still just a ballerina, Christine would likely be thinking the same thing. But unlike what anyone else, Christine could not defend her actions. The secret of Erik's existence was not hers to share. The world would never know of the man who lived under the opera until the day he chose to make his presence known. But even if she could, who would believe her? The cast would have absolute faith in the myth but would scorn the thought of the man.

Christine braced herself and walked to Monsieur Reyer for her music. Like the demanding maestro he was, he looked past Christine and pretended not to notice her. If there was anything Monsieur Reyer loathed, it was a performer who did not honor their position and dared to arrive after he did. He considered it a personal insult to be kept waiting by someone in his charge. You were not late in the Opera Populaire if you took your place before Reyer stepped in the room.

"Maestro?" Christine timidly asked, "What am I to sing today?"

Reyer fixed a look of complete and utter loathing on Christine. Christine felt her face pale and her hands start to tremble. If he had the mind to, Reyer could dismiss her from the Opera once and for all. Although the managers were the authority the cast should have feared, it was Reyer who held said position, as for the most part, he held the future careers of the cast in his hands.

"Mademoiselle Daae. I see you have finally decided to grace us with your presence."  
"I'm sorry I was late, Monsieur. I did not mean it. It will not happen again." Christine whispered.

Reyer did not see fit to look at Christine directly and instead examined upon his baton as he thought of his reply.

"The managers seem to have enjoyed your… singing." He pronounced the word as if he could not find a lowlier, more insulting phrase. "Otherwise I would tell you that your position is no longer required for the season. See that you are not late again." Reyer said as he handed her a thick bundle of papers.

Christine could only nod in gratitude as she grabbed the papers and scurried away to her spot. She had gotten off incredibly lucky, Reyer could have offered her one of his infamous deals in order for her to keep her position.

She found the courage to peek at the papers and felt joy fill every crevice of her soul. Christine was officially now Carlotta's understudy! This was a dream come true to Christine. This was the first step toward her ultimate goal! Her salary would almost double and she would be able to play Elyssia on Monday and Tuesday. God, what fantastic luck.

She couldn't wait to get home, Madame Valarius would be so proud! Madame's smiles these days were few and far between, but each one directed toward Christine was a benediction. And Erik! He would be so happy to see his tutoring had worked its magic!

But happiest of all, Christine now officially had a fighting chance to achieve her ultimate goal. With sublime bliss in her heart, Christine raised her eyes towards the heavens.

 _Your dying wish might finally be coming to pass, Papa. Maybe now I can make you happy, up in heaven._

* * *

Christine slammed the dressing room door shut. She then walked over to her dressing table, sat down and let her forehead hit the table with a soft thud. This had been a mistake. Already Christine longed for the quiet days where she was an unassuming ballerina. Today was first day at her new job. Why did everyone automatically assume she knew exactly what she was doing? And between the cold silences and the fake, enthusiastic congratulations she didn't know how to address the people she had worked with for a decade.

Everyone now suddenly expected her to be the happy, outgoing, insincere prodigy to Carlotta, never mind that everyone knew Christine Daae was a quiet girl who preferred to stay out of the center of attention. She had been unpopular before because of this trait but now she was hated. Everyone now saw her as an ungrateful little twerp, or memorably, in the words of Carlotta herself, a toad.

Christine ran her fingers though her hair and sighed. She had no one to turn to. Even if she told Erik, the one friend she now regrettably had in this world, he might jump to the worst possible solution at the mistreatment of his student.

Just then there was a quiet knock at the door.

Chrisitne turned and glared at the offending mahogany. Who would have the gall to disturb her in her moment of self-pity?

Christine marched to the door and flung it open, fully intending to let whoever it was know exactly what she thought.

She opened her mouth to speak, but stopped in shock when she saw who her guest was.

"Raoul!"

 **A/N: Fun fact, guys. I'm an awful writer. For the past two weeks I've been trying to get the motivation to write, while worrying about my course work and transferring to an actual uni from the college I'm at now. And I wasn't sure how to get from the halfway point I'm at now to the end of Act I of this fic. Please be patient, I'm getting out of the rut I've written myself into and have a clearer idea of how to get to where I want to go with this.**


	20. Dear Old Friend

Christine was taken aback. Raoul de Chany was the last person she would expect to call on her since that awkward conversation just a few night ago. Even if Raoul had changed entirely from the quiet, unassuming boy she once knew, only the most lewd, boorish aristocracy would advance on a woman who had so thoroughly rejected them.

"Raoul," Christine asked gently "What can I do for you?"

Raoul stood in the doorway, clutching a small bouquet of flowers, completely disheveled in appearance. He only vaguely resembled the dashing gentleman of a few nights ago. Indeed, this was the Raoul Christine knew during that fateful summer.

Raoul met Christine's eyes and immediately dropped his gaze to the floor. He shifted his weight, his entire posture making his discomfort all too clear.

"Christ - _Mademoiselle Daaé_ , may I come in? I would like to talk to you in private."

Perhaps it was the pitiful figure Raoul cut in her doorway or perhaps it was the wave of nostalgia that hit Christine but whatever the reason, Christine felt her heart soften. Raoul looked so heartbreakingly hopeful, not in any way resembling the twenty-four year old man he was, but rather the fourteen year old boy she knew so many years ago.

Christine opened the door wider and nodded. Hesitantly, Raoul walked into Christine's dressing room. Christine closed the door and waited for him to speak. In silence, the two looked upon each other. With a start, Raoul seemed to suddenly remember the flowers he tightly clutched.

"Ah, I thought you might like these." He said, handing Christine the flowers.

"Thank you." Christine said as she accepted the gift.

"Violets! Oh Raoul you remembered!"

A pink tinge colored Raoul's face as a small, delighted smile crossed his face.

"How could I forget? You made me spend hours at a time with you looking for your favorite flower."

Suddenly, he tensed up once more, reaching up to tousle his hair.

Christine couldn't help but smile. So he had kept that small nervous habit he had so many years ago even into adulthood!

"Ah, I came to apologize about my behavior the last time we spoke. I was entirely out of line."  
Christine did not reply but nodded in agreement, encouraging him to continue.

"It was entirely uncalled for for me to presume that you would be willing to accompany a stranger of the years. And far worse for me to insult your integrity."

Raoul clasped his hands together tightly.

"Please, please give me a few moments to try to explain."  
Christine nodded her assent.  
"I suppose I can hear your account."

Despite still being insulted and angry with Raoul, Christine could not help but feel affection for Raoul. A man, yes, but still so much the boy. Christine almost stepped forward to reassure Raoul. _Almost_.

"First, I just want to say how truly sorry I am. I have been so worried, hence why I am not in the most presentable state. I was afraid that it was my boorish behavior which drove you from the theater. I'm relieved to hear that it was not me who caused you to be ill."

Raoul's blush deepened and his eyes widened in fear.

"Which is not to imply in any way that I was glad to hear that you were ill! The news was only slightly less terrible to me."

Raoul paused and brushed imaginary dust from his coat sleeve.

"I… When I saw you on stage as Elyssa, I could not believe it. For the past ten years, I have often wondered what became of you. Then suddenly, I see Christine Daaé printed on the program and a woman who resembled the girl I knew on stage. I thought I was dreaming. When I found out from the managers that this Mademoiselle Daaé was indeed Swedish and had been at the Populaire for a decade, I knew it was you. But I was so nervous! It had been so long and I was afraid you would not remember me and I would appear to be the foolish, adoring fan who had lied to win a minute of your time. So, I made a mistake. I…"  
Raoul paused to tousle his hair once more before continuing.

"I followed Phillipe's advice and had a strong drink to steel my confidence before coming to see you. But, it was unfortunately too strong and I was slightly intoxicated when I called on you."

Christine managed to keep a neutral face for but a few seconds. Then she a smile broke out on her face and before long, she was forced to try and mute her laughter by covering her mouth. She finally was able to regain control, but when she straightened up and looked into Raoul's clear blue eyes, mirth threatened to overtake her once again.

It was wrong to laugh, but such a thing was so… _Raoul_. Raoul was still the nervous, shy boy he had been before, overly sensitive to other people's opinions. Such an endearing quality, but it did not yet excuse him from his behavior.

"Thank you for explaining, Raoul, but it does not erase the conversation from existence. My modesty is still offended."

Raoul's face fell and his stance weakened. He stood, examining the floor as he gathered his thoughts.

"I understand entirely. My behavior was and still is inexcusable. But," he looked at Christine hopefully, "would you give me a chance to try and remedy the situation over dinner?"  
Suddenly he blushed and straightened in a panic.

"Please don't think that I am trying to advance on you once more! I simply… I just want to apologize more thoroughly and win your friendship."

Christine pretended to consider this. Of course, she would accept Raoul's offer. There was nothing more in this world that she craved more right now than the comfort of companionship, and she could think of no better person than Raoul. If Raoul was but a fraction of the friend she once had in him, it would be far, far more than sufficient. In addition, it would not be unpleasant in the least to be seen in the company of such a respected aristocrat as he, the Viscount de Chany.

And, as Christine realized, it would be the first time in who knows how long that she had gone out to dinner with a gentleman. Without the 'Angel of Music's iron grip, Christine was free to do and go where she pleased.

"Alright Monsieur le Viscount, I accept your preposition. Allow me a few minutes to change and I will meet you in front of the Opera."  
Raoul's face lit up with joy. Blue eyes bright, with a smile on his face, Raoul replied, "Mademoiselle Daaé thank you so much! The chance to right the wrongs I have caused you means so much to me."

"Raoul, please, call me Christine. Mademoiselle Daaé sounds strange coming from you."

Raoul headed toward the door, "I'll only be a few minutes in getting the horses, I promise! I'll be waiting outside, Christine!" and strode out, giving Christine an absolutely glowing look of happiness before he closed the door.

It took Christine but a few minutes to change into something suitable to wear and within a quarter of an hour, she was on her way with her childhood best friend to sample the delights Paris offered.

It would not be for another half hour that a noise resembling a crash would reverberate from behind the dressing room wall.

 **A/N: Twenty Chapters! That's twenty more chapters than I ever thought I would write for this. And I'm not even a third of the way though the story I have planned out, which is about a third less than where I thought I would be at chapter twenty...**

 **Also THANK YOU SO MUCH TO THE PEOPLE WHO REVIEW! ESPECIALLY** **DONOVAN94, Samalexmac, Songbook12, and GutterBallet last week. Your reviews are what keep me writing (especially now that I no longer have the MUST WRITE NOW motivation I had when I started writing this back in September) so please keep reviewing. I love everything and everytime I get a review email my heart leaps in joy. Thank you.**


	21. Enmity

The silence of the cold and dismal corridor was shattered by a sharp, ugly crunch as Erik slammed his fist into a rotten plank nearby. The wood buckled under the unexpected force, bending in on itself with a crack. The sound was sickly satisfying, and had all the effect on Erik as blood to a shark. He forced his elbow, aided by the full weight of his body, through the wood and bared his teeth in a menacing grin as he felt it snap into pieces. But even this did not satisfy his rage. In a spurt of destructive greed, Erik found himself stomping on the remnants of the wood, and had absolutely no intention to stop until each and every part was thoroughly crushed into splinters.

Somehow, through the din Erik created, he heard the sound of footsteps. The cool, clear feeling of total control flooded back into Erik, restored by the fear of his existence being found. Erik quickly kicked the remains of the shattered support aside and pressed himself against the wall, once more a just shadow among the shadows. Although his hiding place was optimal, cast completely in darkness by the light that spilled over from the mirror, Erik pulled his lasso into hand as an extra precaution. In Erik's experience, it never hurt to be prepared for any possible scenario. The footsteps were far off yet, anyone else would not have noticed the intruding sound for a while. But if anyone saw Erik in this way, as the man and not as the ghost, the life he had built for himself might fall to pieces in a matter of minutes. Erik would do whatever it took to keep his existence a secret, even if it took breaking his promise to Nadir once more.

Minutes crawled by as Erik stood, hidden behind one of the thousands of wooden support beams. In these minutes, Erik indeed was the ghost he took such pains to mimic. He stood almost inhumanly still and not a sound escaped him. The only thing which would have given a hint to his life would have been any escaping body heat in those cool passages.

Finally, the damned intruder to Erik's kingdom came within a comfortable distance for Erik to guess who this interloper was by the sounds of the footsteps. Instinctively, Erik's grip tightened on the Punjab lasso as he strained his ears to better catch the sound. Recognition hit Erik with the force of being struck as his heart leapt and he felt himself go cold with fear. Involuntarily, the hairs on the back of Erik's neck stood up and he attempted to press himself even further into the shelter of the dark.

 _Oh God. No. Not now._

The sound of slow, measured footsteps, occasionally punctuated by the sound of something or another sliding over the worn wood, or a quick tap resonating from the wooden framework made their presence known to Erik. It was _him_.

Erik's heart raced as he tried to press himself as far as he could into the dark. He quickly pulled his hat down as far as he could over his mask and flipped the collar of his cloak over his face. While it had seemed seconds ago that _he_ could have moved slower if _he_ tried, _he_ seemed to be approaching Erik with incalculable velocity.

 _He_ was coming into Erik's vicinity now. Slowly, oh so slowly, _he_ came closer. Erik dared not move, dared not to breathe. But as the man came within arm's reach, Erik could not help but press the masked side of his face closer to the wall. As _he_ passed, Erik was taken in every aspect of _his_ figure. _He_ was almost as prepared as Erik was. Dressed entirely in black, a hat pulled over _his_ face, a dark scarf wrapped around the lower part of _his_ head, the only faults Erik found were in the cloth and in the shoes. Even if Erik's hearing was more honed than the average human's and it was more than likely Erik was quibbling over little things, it grated on him to not take precautions. As a result, Erik refused to wear rough, course clothing, partially from an aesthetic view but primarily from the fact that as he walked, excess noise would be reduced. But he really could not fault _him_ for what little aspects of the true professional sneak _he_ lacked. After all, not everyone knew the tools of the trade of assassins.

Finally, after what felt like years, _he_ passed Erik's immediate hiding place. But then, an unexpected sound broke through the dark. The sound of an object being kicked, and then skidding across the floor. Immediately, Erik heard _him_ stopped and then the rustle of cloth as _he_ knelt down. Erik heard _him_ feeling around in the dark, the sound of leather brushing against wood almost obscenely loud.

 _Damn damn damn. The scaffolding. Damn._

Erik cursed himself. Of all the times to lose control, of _course_ the first time in a long time Erik had given himself completely to anger would be the time _he_ was in the area.

Finally after eternities of keeping still and hiding, Erik heard the sound of cloth on cloth, most likely _him_ pocketing something, and heard _him_ stand up. _He_ resumed his achingly slow, quiet walk into the dark, slowly leaving Erik behind. After giving _him_ ample time to walk further away, Erik quickly retreated into the belly of the Opera Populaire. Once he had gone far enough, into passages so complex and convoluted he himself rarely employed them, he let himself relax.

 _Damn it! The one time I lose control is one of the only times that_ he _was there! The one man in this world who I fear._

Even the Opera Ghost had the sense to fear _him_ the only other nameless figure who haunted the Opera Populaire. To the best of Erik's knowledge, the only ones in the Opera Populaire who knew of the shadow's existence were the managers, Nadir, and Erik himself. Naturally, _he_ did not have Erik's flair for the dramatic, or crave it as Erik did. Erik knew himself to be superior in all regards to _him_ , but nevertheless Erik feared _him_. _He_ was only other who had condemned his life be lived inside the Opera Populaire, albeit for more noble reasons than Erik, and the one man who could bring Erik down.

 _Of course, I meet_ him _after that! After Christine…._

 _Christine…_

Erik tried to keep his emotions under control like he always did, reverting to that smooth mask he made his home inside. Sometimes, it was easy, but not today, not now. As wretched memories of a few moments ago flooded back into his mind, he could not help but sob, an empty feeling forcing its way into his chest and piercing his heart. Christine's careless abandonment hit Erik with fresh pain as he grasped a nearby ladder for much needed support. He almost collapsed right there and then with the burdun of his suffering. But the terror of almost falling into _his_ clutches was still fresh in Erik's mind.

Within the span of a few moments, Erik was involuntarily dragging himself back to his house. Blinded by burning tears and accompanied only by the sounds of his own agony, he rushed for the comforts of his home, familiar in its emptiness and eternal silence, save for Erik's music.

But even after he finally was home, Erik was not free. Even the burrow he had created for himself, far away from any man, was no longer the shelter he so desperately craved. It seemed that now, every corner held some memory of Christine. Here was the sheet music he had tutored her from, there was the book she had read. His bedroom, the sheets that she had slept on.

There was no escape from the pain.

He turned and ripped the coverings from the alcove. The dress stood there almost mockingly. How did he ever hope to win Christine? The very idea now seemed absurd to him. Why would Christine be even remotely interested in Erik? What could he possibly have to offer her? He had no legal source of income, he lived like a mouse, seventeen years older, and above all, monstrous.

As much as it pained him, he could not blame Christine for not choosing to wait to see him once more. Just that morning they had spoken, what more did Christine need from him in the same day? But of course, the hopeful fool he was, he had been waiting behind the mirror almost as soon as rehearsals had ended, happily planning his revenge on Reyer for daring to address his angel so cruelly. He had not expected Christine to have been so shaken by those fools who were so envious of her perfection. He had been so damned sure that Christine would turn to him for comfort; after all, did he not say that he would be waiting for her after rehearsals? when the knock on the door had startled them both. Then before Erik knew it, Christine was changing into evening wear, completely ignorant of Erik's presence and it was all Erik could do to preserve her modesty and avert his eyes. Then she was gone, likely sharing a laugh with the fop.

 _That damned boy._

This thought twisted Erik's chain of thoughts and forced them down a much darker path.

That damned Viscount! Did Christine not know by now that there was no such thing as a free meal in this entire world? Everyone was out to get something; there was absolutely no completely altruistic act. There was some degree of personal motivation behind everything, although some were kinder than others. This Viscount, what could he possibly want with Christine but to take advantage of her?

Erik knew the boy's breed. He would promise undying love and happiness to Christine then turn around and marry someone of his own status, leaving Christine with nothing. He would not appreciate the singular talent she possessed! He could have absolutely no appreciation of the purity and goodness of Christine's soul! He was not worthy of Christine!

 _And you are?_ A snide voice asked. _You? A monster?_

Erik turned, wrenched open a drawer, and pulled out the only mirror he owned. He held the wretched thing in front of his face and examined the reflection of his face, split in half by the cold porcelain. Certainly he looked alright _now_. Not normal, by any stretch of the imagination, but passable.

But Christine would eventually have to come to deal with the truth. As good as she was, she would not be able to accept the truth without intense preparation.

But then, who was he to condemn an innocent to a life with a monster?

In a fit of self-loathing, Erik ripped off the mask and let it fall. His naked visage stared back at him and even Erik felt a wave of revulsion wash over him. He stared at the image, daring himself to look away, until absolute disgust and repulsion overpowered him and he was forced to put the mirror aside.

No man on this Earth could possibly be truly worthy of Christine, least of all Erik. Christine was, arguably, as close to the divine as a mortal could be and Erik had been called a demon countless times.

But Satan himself would have to drag Erik into the depths of hell before he would give up.

Erik sat on the bed and reevaluated the situation. Erik could in no way hint to Christine that her abandonment of Erik bothered him. He could not risk scaring her with the intensity of his feelings. Tomorrow morning, he would be the absolute image of an understanding friend, a gentleman. After all, what right did he really have to Christine's time at this stage? She only just found out that he was a man, not an angel. No, he would be the supportive friend, the ally she needed in this cruel world. In the meantime, he would discourage the boy from seeing her again. These aristocrats, for all their talk, were spineless fools. The Viscount would not miss Christine at all, once he found the task fruitless and potentially dangerous. Once _Raoul de Chagny_ had dropped Christine's acquaintance, Erik could safely proceed in the slow process of wooing Christine.

Erik breathed deeply. Not all hope was lost.

He stood up and replaced the mask.

Erik had preparations to make before tomorrow morning.

 **A/N: I know I keep saying this but THANK YOU SO MUCH TO THE PEOPLE WHO REVIEW! Reviews mean so much to me and give me the motivation to keep writing weekly. Also, a public thank you to the writer with insane talent in my family, my sister whatswiththemustache, for beta-ing this chapter for me and helping me turn up the angry angst. If you like BBC's Merlin or Netflix's Daredevil, I suggest you go check her fics out.**


	22. Chapter 22

Christine slowly opened the door to her dressing room. With a protesting whine, the door gave way. With complete disregard for the dark and what it might hide, Christine stepped into the small room and lit the gas lamps. Immediately, the room was illuminated by familiar greasy yellow light. The sight of her dressing room always gave Christine a sense of homecoming and warmth, regardless of its dismal, well-lived in state, but this time, it was also a source of anxiety. How could she have been so careless to forget Erik? No, she did not give him an explicit promise, but he was surely not so unobservant to not see her go out with Raoul. He was and had been the Opera Ghost for who knows how many years, Christine could guess that there was little goings-on in the Opera Populaire that Erik did not know of. Christine did not even have the option to lie, the hope of such a thing slipping Erik's attention was not a gamble that Christine was willing to take. Christine drew a deep breath and turned to the mirror. Oh, how Christine wanted to sit and look at her father's picture to steel her nerves, but she knew that such a thing would be unwise. Now that Christine knew the secret of the mirror, she did not dare show any weakness in front of Erik. Damn her and her curiosity! Christine would cut all ties with Erik if only she would not hate herself and obsess over what Erik hid after. There was no option for Christine but to remain in contact with Erik – at least until she was satisfied. Christine drew a deep breath and knocked on the mirror.

"Maestro?"

Nothing.

Christine knocked again and called out a bit softer,

"Erik? Please."

After a moment's silence, the mirror swung out to reveal the dark figure of Erik. Silence.

As a way of offering the proverbial olive branch, Christine smiled at Erik.

"Good morning, Erik."

Erik deftly swooped down in a bow.

"Good morning Christine, I trust I find you well."  
A moment's pause.

"Did you and the Viscount enjoy yourselves last night?"  
Christine suddenly felt very small, fixed by Erik's cold gaze as he examined her from his full height. Much to her disappointment, she found that she could not hold his gaze and was forced to examining the mirror as she replied.

"Erik, I am sorry. I should have remembered my commitment to you, but I was carried away. I haven't seen Raoul in so long, and after thinking that he had changed I was so happy to -"

Erik cut her off with a swift motion of his hand.

"It is nothing. You reconnected with an old friend, why shouldn't you enjoy dinner with him? Don't worry, I appreciated the night off."

Christine smiled in relief. Strangely, she was _happy_ to see that she had not offended Erik. This surprised Christine. She would have expected to have felt nothing but relief at the very most, but happy? Not a forenight ago, she had found a mannequin in her image wearing a wedding dress in Erik's bedroom for God's sake, what other warning did she need to try and cut ties with Erik? Certainly, curiosity had compelled her to return and see how things lie with Erik, but Christine assumed that after her curiosity was satisfied, she would cut off contact with Erik. What did his opinion of her matter to Christine? Why should she care?

"I'm happy to hear that, I've been worried that you were offended."  
Worried? Had she been? Thinking back, Christine realized with a shock, that she indeed had been. Christine had been worried that Erik would be displeased on a level deeper than the shallow, teacher-pupil relationship they currently, formally had.

What was wrong with her?

Christine's focus should have been getting the information necessary to satisfy her curiosity, not worried about whatever relationship she and Erik had.

"Well, I'm pleased to say that I was not offended in any way. Now, about today's lesson, eh? Your lower register needs work, start with a scale in D minor an octave down."

* * *

In reality, Christine and Erik only spend a portion of their time studying music. It seemed to Christine that whenever opportunity presented itself, the two were continuously sidetracked by other topics. Between their mutual passions for music, there was always some piece that one of the two was reminded of, which led to an analysis of the composer and the various pros and cons of that particular sub genre and before the two knew it, a half hour had gone by and there was still so much work to do. To her surprise, Christine found that she enjoyed spending time with Erik, in her own environment, regardless of the knowledge she possessed. That the end of the lesson was hurling itself at Christine and suddenly there was only a few minutes before the day's rehearsals.

"Erik, I am so sorry, but we have to stop here. I've only got twenty minutes and I still must change into costume."  
Erik looked up in surprise from his notes and glanced at the small clock on the wall.

"My apologies, I should have kept a better watch on the time. But I did not think it was already so late. Of course, I shall talk to you afterwards and critique your performance with you."

Christine looked at him in surprise.

"Critique my performance? But it is only the second day! I haven't had time to master the music!"  
"My dear, do not expect to make notable improvements unless you treat every time you sing as if you are preforming in front of all of Paris."

On this note, Erik gracefully rose and walked to the door between their two worlds. The moment Erik stepped over the threshold, he all but vanished, so perfect was his camouflage. It almost seemed that the darkness had been waiting for him and welcomed its master back with a velvety embrace. The motion itself took only a fraction of a minute, but Christine was entranced, so perfect in its figurativeness was this moment in time. Erik gracefully brushed any invisible particles of dust off his coat before he smoothly grasped the edge of the tarnished gilt frame and began to pull it closed.

This snapped Christine out of that curious trance.

"Erik!"

Erik looked up in surprise and paused.

"Erik, I must ask."  
Christine bit her lip and felt her cheeks redden. She examined the stained, moldering wall of the room as she continued.  
"Please do not think that I distrust you or think you so low. But I must hear this from your own lips. How… Are…I…You..."

Erik cocked his head, confused.

"Christine, my apologies, but I have absolutely no idea what you mean to say."

Christine closed her eyes and grimaced as she gathered the mental strength needed to continue.

"Erik, will you respect my modesty, with the advantage you have over this room?"

With sudden seriousness, Erik stepped back into the light and lightly grasped Christine by the shoulders.

"Christine, I swear to you here and now that I shall not be behind this mirror at any time you do not expect me here. I shall only be here when I wait for you at an appointed time we have set."  
Erik released Christine and bent into a deep bow.  
"You needn't worry about me. I swear to you that you have no more respectful, devoted friend in this world than myself."

Erik turned and stepped once more into the darkness.

"I shall see you after rehearsals. I'll be watching you."

With this, Erik closed the mirror and, with a hard click, was once more apart of the strange world behind the Opera.

 _End Part I_


	23. Chapter 23

_Part II_

Months passed. Spring had sacrificed itself so that summer might live. The always fashionable streets of Paris filled with fashionable people who sat out later at night and arose even earlier. The Parisian Mademoiselles lived up to their standards in the fashion world as they took advantage of the warm weather to wear daring clothes which would have shocked the rest of Europe. Of course, no self-respecting Mademoiselle would be caught without her ankles coyly showing, or even her calves, delicately enveloped in silk stockings, if she dare be so bold. Young lovers could be seen with even greater frequency inhabiting the bistros and cafes that lined the streets, discussing some lighthearted matter over croissants or a tarte tatin. But these were not the nervous, infatuated lovers that spring births. No, summer love is the love that blossoms into maturity. The once shy youth, once too pure to do more than brush his hand against his lover's, was now so bold and sure of himself to grasp his lady by the waist in public. Raoul and Christine were among this sub-population.

Christine considered herself to be more than content with life at the moment. It seemed that the Gods, after ignoring her for most of her life, had collectively decided to apologize to Christine in excess. She must had done something, some act which had pleased whatever deity controls destiny to such an extent, she was living the life her Father had wanted for her – and more.

Much to everyone's surprise, most of all her own, Christine was now the reigning diva of the Opera Populaire. Certainly, Christine's voice had reached previously unheard of heights under Erik's guidance, but no one could have ever accounted for the curious sequence of events which placed Christine so firmly in her position. Earlier in the year, Faust had been staged and Christine had been cast as the quiet, gentle Sybil to Carlotta's brave and flamboyant Marguerite. Christine had been more than content with this position. After all, she _was_ starring in a lead role in a renowned production of a classic opera and was the understudy to the lead. But destiny had decided for the roles to be reversed.

It certainly was curious, just earlier that week, as Erik was helping Christine refine her mastery of the role of Marguerite, he had complained to her of what he thought was the injustice of it all.

"You are a much finer singer than that cow could ever even dream to be," he snorted, "The Managers' blindness and insistence of kowtowing to Carlotta instead of running this theater the way it should be run will catch up to them. I assure you, fate will ensure they reap what they've sown."

Christine had thought this to be very little more than Erik's usual complaining – he saw anyone who did not think that Christine's voice was a gift from God as an uncouth heathen who, in his own memorable words, should "Donate all his assets and withdraw from society completely to live as a monk and beg God to give him the gift of understanding the idea of beauty."

The first few productions had gone by with no problems at all. Carlotta had done her usual sub par renditions of Marguerite, the bourgeois of Paris had enjoyed examining the lithe, shapely bodies of the ballet corps, and the middle class had enjoyed the feeling of sharing the same show as the upper class. Things ran the same way as always, since the opening of the Populaire and likely until the day it would forever shut its doors. But then, the unthinkable had happened.

Carlotta was whisked off the stage, changed into Sybil's costume and Christine had stepped in to fill the now empty role of Marguerite. But, what no one could ever have had predicted, a high ranking official had decided to take his family to the Populaire that night. Apparently, this man - Christine was not given any specific names from the Opera chain of gossip - was in some was in charge of or otherwise associated with the government's involvement with the arts. After the show, he had decided to stop in and have a much needed little chat with the Managers. Consequently, Christine was surprised to see a pale Firman pay her a visit and gravely inform her that she would be the new lead at the Opera, should she choose to sign the contract. The chain of events had been flawless. Had she not known better, Christine would have thought that Erik had arranged this accident himself.

It was a pleasure to rehearse now. Tensions among the cast and various stage-hands had greatly reduced after Christine had extracted a painful promise from Erik to give up the pranks of the Opera ghost. Although he was still extorting money from the managers, and there was the occasional encounter with the Ghost, months free of scenery falling, sinister laughter, and mysterious voices had done much to improve the atmosphere. Erik had been quite disheartened to give up on what he called "nothing more than a bit of harmless fun," but Christine had eventually persuaded him.

Erik and Christine were now great friends. It had taken Christine a great amount of time to learn to trust Erik once again after his masquerade as Angel of Music for years, and an even more time to recover from knowing of what Erik kept hidden away in his bedroom. After many, many weeks of being tutored by Erik, Christine visited him at his home along the lake. From that point, it had been a slippery slope and a futile effort to resist sharing a friendship with Erik. Bonding over shared passions and hours of wonderful conversation and caused them to become thick as thieves. These days, when Christine was at the Populaire, if she was not rehearsing, she was with Erik. Such a friendship had been previously unimagined to Christine. Christine had never been popular and outside of Meg Giry, the one girl in the Opera who was friendly with Christine, she had spent most of her free time with Madame Valarius and a disembodied voice for company. Now, Christine had one very close friendship and an incredible beau. Christine had once been worried that Erik would be jealous of Raoul, but if there was any tension on Erik's side, he did not show it whatsoever. In fact, Erik encouraged Christine to "spend time with people her own age" and "enjoy the greatest city in the world fully."

However, there was still one seed of dissatisfaction that persisted in Christine: the secret of Erik's mask. Erik had not yet volunteered any information to Christine and she did not dare ask him directly. Christine hated herself for not yet having let go of this obsession. She was living a better life than she ever dared dream of right now – why was she so fixated on solving this riddle? Why couldn't she be satisfied with what she had – not lust after more. In addition, Christine had deduced that Erik was a man with a dark, even dangerous, past. Did she truly want to know any secrets that the revealing of what lay beneath his masks – both the one of cold, hard porcelain and the wall he had so firmly built around himself?

Yes. Christine did. She wanted this knowledge more than she could ever hope to express in words. Christine knew one day, she would gain this knowledge and then perhaps be able to rest – no matter the cost.

 **A/N: I am so sorry for not having uploaded anything for so long! The past few months have been really busy and crazy (a huge physics project, studies in general, among other things) And I had to get the creative juices flowing again. I'll try to get back on track, but I'm not promising anything.**


	24. Chapter 24

The golden, flickering light of the candles cast strange shapes around the room. Although the air was completely still in Erik's home, the small flames were nevertheless disturbed by some undetected force of something or another. The dancing flames stirred the depths of Erik's memory. For an instant, he once again saw the gypsy camp, the beautiful horses, the exquisitely dark women and their feral men. He saw the women spinning around the flames of the nightly bonfire, a kaleidoscope of muted color against a blinding background. He saw the matriarch of the clan chanting, trying to communicate with the dead, a ceremony with real meaning rather than the daily farce for profit. The particular clan that Erik had briefly traveled with believed that the flickering of candles in still air was a sign of the presence of spirits, a hope that the future could be understood.

 _Perhaps its those who I've killed come back to haunt me, to exact their revenge at this moment._

The opium had done its work and all but ensured Erik the peace of mind he needed to properly think. Erik stood at a crossroads, the most important one of his life. He could not afford to make a rash decision because of the anxiety or blind panic the thought of losing Christine always resulted in. But he still had pulled in all his available resources to help him make this decision.

Erik idly pluked the strings of his beloved violin. The feel of the velvety mahogany was infinitely comforting and the feeling of the familiar flexibility yet unyielding tautness of the horsehair under his fingers never failed to help him think a problem through. The past six months or so had been priceless in giving Erik so much new data and information and, so much more importantly, Christine's trust.

 _Christine…_

How perfect she was, how absolutely incredible. Any Gods involved with creation had made their masterpiece, their piece de resisance. Her beautiful, curling hair, those wide blue eyes… Her _voice…_ Christine was the only creature in this universe that Erik considered to be a sign that God existed. She was the only thing in Erik's universe that made life not only worth living, but infinitely enjoyable.

Which is why Erik could not take the slightest risk in losing Christine.

The smallest miscalculation and error could lose Christine to Erik forever.

The thought of life without Christine sobered Erik's thoughts. Immediately, Erik's attitude shifted from the carefree lover to the cold logic and rational of the observer. Although depressing, Erik was grateful for this.

He could not allow his emotions to rule his reasoning in any matter, especially in this of all things. The opium had certainly helped to dull the sword of unreason but it was impossible to extinguish it entirely. Without Christine, Erik saw no need in continuing his wrenched existence. Christine was Erik's world. Without her, life had no more meaning.

He pondered the present state of their relationship. So far, everything was going to plan. Emotional intimacy had developed between Christine and himself, to a greater degree than he had dared hope. Christine now all but completely trusted him, exactly what he needed. And furthermore, Erik knew that he was arguable Christine's only friend. Although he was ashamed to admit it, even to himself, Erik had observed Christine enough to know this as fact regardless of Christine's current position as the toast of Paris. Yes, she had acquaintances aplenty, but with some slight nudging from Erik, Christine had the foresight to see that these women were only interested in the prestige that Christine would bring to their social circles, and had no real interest in Christine herself. And the few who Erik felt posed a threat to him had been taken care of easily enough, the superstitious fools they were.

Erik shook his head. As a whole, humanity was so completely idiotic. Perhaps it was for the best that he had been born with the curse of his face, and had been effectively cut off from the masses. Although it certainly would be nice for a change to be able to walk freely in the daylight with no fear of being harassed or attacked, or, for once, to feel a refreshing breeze without the accompanying sensation of trapped sweat and chafing cloth, Erik saw little point in the human race.

From Erik's observations, everyone was so occupied on what was directly in front of them that they did not have the notion to look up.

The same scholars who studied and argued Plato's metaphor of the cave were so blind that they themselves did not see that they were trapped in the collective cave of their shortsightedness Even if Erik had the chance to try and explain _how much_ they were missing, people were so stubborn and unyielding that they would drive Erik away. Although for once, it would be for Erik's thoughts and ideas rather than his appearance.

Erik hit his chair's armrest in frustration. People were so shortsighted. There was so much to see, so many boundaries to push forward and no one would listen, let alone organically have these thoughts. Although Erik's interests lie primarily in music, architecture, and the arts, even he, never formally trained, could see that there was so much more. Physics, mathematics, astronomy, literature… Erik had noticed so many discrepancies and connections that no one else had the mind to see.

While physicists argued the two cases as being separate and unique, it was obvious that electricity and magnetism were somehow related. Certainly, proving Fermat's theorem had been somewhat challenging to Erik, but he had seen the key nevertheless. The formula to writing what would be considered a great novel was obvious. But no one had the mind to see these things for themselves or listen to someone who did.

Except Christine.

No, she was no great thinker herself, as much as it pained Erik to admit it. But more importantly, Christine _listened_. She tried to _understand_ Erik. She asked him questions and _genuinely_ tried to understand the concepts. Christine did not close her mind to new ideas. She did not call Erik a fool for questioning what was considered correct.

The past few months had been little more than music and conversation between Erik and Christine. Erik had never enjoyed life before this. Erik had never know what it was to share thoughts, ideas, hopes, and dreams with another, with no fear of rejection. Nadir was a good friend, certainly, but Erik had never felt the openness as with Christine. And best of all, Erik knew he now had Christine's platonic love. There was only one step to winning her forever.

A simple action, surely, but could he truly do it? Could he knowingly do this? Erik was flooded with disgust and self-loathing for seriously considering such a thing, but it was the only way as far as he could see. Erik knew that he was selfish and horrible for what he had planned. The opportunity was six months away yet, and he only needed half that time to properly lay the groundwork. But again, the boy would be pushed out of the competition for Christine's affections permanently, leaving Erik with a clear path to victory. Raoul de Chany. The demon sent straight from hell to try and take away all that Erik cared about in this world. But Erik would be victorious. His plan was foolproof.

 _That damn boy…. He does not know that he is playing with fire._

Erik hated himself for lying to Christine, but he certainly could not tell her the truth while she was blinded by her feelings for the fop. All he could do was smile and pretend and play the part of the platonic tutor and friend. He absolutely hated Raoul de Chany. He hated ever fiber of the dandy's being. He hated the way the way Christine's eyes lit up when she talked about him, hated watching Christine climb into a ridiculously expensive and fashionable carriage with him to go to some equally ridiculously expensive and fashionable restaurant.

And all he could do is watch.

 _But not for long..._

Erik would give de Chany a chance to withdraw from the duel he did not yet know he was engaged in.

Erik was not that much of a monster.

But if that failed… Erik would fight tooth and nail to win the only chance at life he would ever get.

 _After all, all's fair in love and war._

Even if it wasn't fair to Christine.

 _Christine..._

 _Oh my love, I am so, so sorry. But it is the only way._


	25. Chapter 25

_Bien que vous as sûrement égaré_

 _Prenz courage de grâce,_

 _tes pas retracent_

 _Pauvre errance un_

All those present in the vast theater halted what tasks they were assigned to in order to listen. It was not their fault; anyone in their positions would have done the same. The Opera Populaire was debuting a new work of Gilbert and Sullivan, The Pirates of Penzance, translated courtesy of a very proud Firman. Secretly, the cast didn't think much of the new opera; clearly it was the management attempting to show those above them that the Opera Populaire was indeed keeping up with what was new and in vogue in the literary world. To the people who actually made the operas happen, it was just more unnecessary work. The Opera Populaire already had a fine assortment of operas for which props, backdrops, and costumes already existed. Besides, but two years ago the Opera Populaire added another opera to its repertoire. Where, the stagehands often asked themselves, was the need for another new production? Consequently, the cast and crew downplayed the opera to the best of their ability, just shy of completely jeopardizing their employment. The music was never praised, the choreography was said to be clumsy, and general consensus of the story was that it was complete rubbish.

Today marked the first time the actors and actresses sang the various arias and duets from Act I with full orchestra accompaniment, not quite a rehearsal but nevertheless the first time the crew heard how it was sung. Christine Daae had just started into Poor Wand'ring One, Mabels' Act I aria. One could not help but listen. Surely this was the voice that greeted you at Heaven's gates! No matter how disgruntled the employees were and how determined they were to disapprove of this opera in every regard, at the end of the aria, Christine was universally applauded by all present, with pure astonishment and admiration in their eyes.

It was astonishing how much progress she had made since being promoted to the leading soprano. If Christine had sung like an angel on that fateful day so many months ago, she was surely a goddess now. Even La Carlotta had been forced to admit that the girl had remarkable talent. The curious thing was, she insisted that she had no teacher, that she was entirely self-taught. This statement was a never ending source of gossip for the workers behind the scenes.

Joseph Buqet insisted that Christine had made a pact with the devil, that he had seen in the company of the Opera Ghost. Buqet was more than happy to repeat the story to anyone who cared to listen.

"Now, ya see – it was like this. The opera closed and after each show I have to stay late and fix the ropes for the next day. Ya know how many props and backdrops I have to pick up and drop all the time? Yea' with 'his damned thing I have to take ev'rything up at the drop of a pin only to drop the blasted things down 'gain. 'nyway, I was sittin' in me corner o'er there, you know the one by the dancers' rehearsin' room? Yeah? I was sitting there real quiet tryin' to undo one of those damned ropes, it got tangled durin' the show and I didn' wanna come in early an' get it undone 'fore the next one. So I'm sittin' there, minding my own business when I hears footsteps, real light ones, and quick. So I look, and its Christine Daae. Now, I says to myself, what could a pretty thing like 'er be doin' 'ere at this time 'a night? So I decide to sit real quiet and see what she's gonna do. She walks a bit farther and a few meters down the hall she stops all'a sudden. Then I hear her voice, think she said somethin' like 'Where are you?', can't be sure, she spoke so quiet like. The all'a sudden, I see a man melt out 'a the shadows. No I mean it! One minute no one 'us there, next the shape of a man is there! 'Nyway, I hears them talkin', the man lifts his arm and puts 'is cloak 'round Christine and soon as I blink they've up and disappeared. Only one man that can do that, the Phantom! So I thinks, who would be 'anding 'round wif a devil like that? Someone who made a deal wif the devil 'imself! I'm tellin' ya, it makes sense! 'Ow can she sing so good and be 'anging 'round wif the phantom at the very same time?"

Of course, very few believed this story. After all, Buqet was rarely seen without his flask. But he insisted that he had been entirely sober at the time. But it was curious how Christine had allegedly managed without any teacher. Very curious….

Christine fetched a glance behind her. With more than a few meters between them and the door, surely they were out of earshot by now.

"Erik this must stop!" Christine hissed.

Erik looked at her and cocked his head.

"I find our current arrangement quite suitable, is there something troubling you about it?"

Christine fixed Erik with a look that can only be described as someone who cannot believe the ignorance of the other, but does not have the energy to fully show incredulity.

"Erik. You're the opera ghost! Surely you've heard the rumors!"  
Erik laughed. "Oh, you mean the one about you being a witch who brews a potion made of the blood of virgins each night to improve your voice? Surely you see that it's the professional envy of a minority that creates it and weak minds that spread it."

"No, the new one, the rumors about _us_."

Erik immediately sobered.

"Ah, when Buqet saw us. God damn the man, I thought he had left like everyone else! But no matter, no one seriously believes the word of a drunk, not even these superstitious fools."

"Erik, I don't want you to become discovered and you have to admit that the whole affair is very suspicious to anyone."

Erik pondered this as he led Christine down the passage.

"Well, people have already laughed Buqet's account off as the hallucination of a drunk. I wouldn't worry, I'm very sure the whole rumor will die down very soon. The only problem I can foresee is Buqet pressing the issue and thinking himself the detective of the opera. But even so, don't worry yourself about it. Buqet has been more depressed than ever lately, you don't know what he might happen to him. He might become so… _tangled_ in his own problems that this would become the very least of his worries."

Christine had to agree, Erik made a good point.

"You're right, I've heard that Buqet has even more problems at home recently. His wife miscarried again and blames him for it. He'll probably forget the whole thing after a while. But still, there is the question of how I'm supposed to have been able to improve my voice."

Erik shrugged. "Let them wonder, let them envy you with each and every fiber of their being. They don't deserve you, no one in that world could deserve you. Ergo, consequently, they don't deserve the truth."

By this time they had reached the staircase that frightened the claustrophobic Christine so.

Upon reaching this landmark, Erik paused and gently grasped her by the shoulders.

"Please trust me. Everything will be alright. You will have your music, they will not have the truth, and you and I can sing forever without any of them bothering us. Now come, we have a lot of work to do this evening. Your lower register needs work and some of your constants were a bit unclear. You've come so far and I am so proud of you but you can sing more perfect still."

Upon finishing this speech, Erik deftly bent over and opened the trap door that hid the staircase and gestured for Christine to enter the small opening.

Christine mutely nodded, but remained where she was. Once again, Christine was overcome by anxiety of that seemingly long descent into damp, cramped darkness as she was. She had never told Erik about her fear, afraid of displeasing him and sparking one of his moods. Luckily, they only rarely spoke during the journey down, preferring to wait until the comfort of the boat and the knowledge that once more, the underbelly of the opera hid them. It had been easy for Christine to hide her fear from Erik. But tonight, he noticed the fear on her face.

"Christine," he murmured, "really, there is nothing to worry about. Such ridiculous rumors never went anywhere."

"Erik…It's…not that." Christine looked down in embarrassment. "I'm claustrophobic; going down this staircase isn't the most pleasant experience for me. I didn't say anything because I didn't want to cause you any unnecessary worry. I'm fine, I just don't… like it."

Erik placed his fingers under Christine's chin and gently lifted her face up to meet his concerned gaze.

"Christine – you should have told me! I regret to say that there's no other way to get down to the lake from inside the opera, at least not one that's fit for a lady such as yourself to walk through. But, perhaps I can help."

Christine furrowed her eyebrows together.

"But how?"

"There is another way to the lake, a short cut if you will. But it is not as safe as the staircase."  
Erik gazed at her in silence, indecision clearly written across his features.

"Christine, do you trust me?" he asked abruptly.

Christine's eyes briefly flickered away from and back to Erik's eyes, before replying in a small voice "Of course."

"Would you allow me to carry you?"

The boldness of this question surprised Christine. She had been raised to believe that there were only two circumstances in which a man should carry a woman: if she is injured or the two are married. She was neither. But to say no would not only leave her to now unnecessarily face her fears, but would hurt Erik's feelings at the same time. She saw little room for internal debate.

"Yes, Erik. I would."

Erik nodded and kicked the trap door closed.

He then bent down to place one of his long arms under Christine's knees and another supporting her back and stood back up with Christine firmly secured in his arms. Instinctively, Christine wrapped her arms around his neck.

Erik looked down at her. Never before had Erik been so close to her. She could see so many details in his face that had escaped her notice before, a curious circle of bright gold around the pupils of his exposed eye, a few stubborn hairs marring his otherwise perfectly shaven face, and shockingly, a pattern of very faint, obviously old scars scattered throughout the exposed side of his face. The white mask loomed closer than ever.

 _The mask…_  
Once more Christine was presented with a fresh opportunity to wonder what secret Erik could possibly be hiding.

It would be so incredibly easy for Christine to rip off the mask from this position. A few seconds, a flick of the wrist, and she would know.

Erik startled her out of her mesmerization.

"I need you to promise me that you will close your eyes and not open them until I tell you to. I assure you, the passage is very open, no smaller than the one we just came out of, but…Please, I would greatly appreciate it if you didn't see. It's not fit for you."

Christine nodded, closed her eyes, and buried her face into Erik's shoulder.

"I promise." she murmured into the rough cloth of his jacket.  
"Thank you. It'll be quite a short trip, I promise."  
Erik then left the dim light of the small crossroads behind and carried Christine into the darkness that waited for the two of them.


	26. Chapter 26

Erik's heart felt fit to burst. He couldn't recall a moment where he had felt it pounding in his chest so hard, an organic telegraph beating a rhythm to declare the sheer amount of love he felt for the woman in his arms. Blood coursed through his veins and he was only too aware of the feeling of Christine's arms around his neck, her body pulled snugly against his. Ah, such joy! Such a sweet feeling of validation! Surely Christine would not have agreed if she did not hold some degree of affection for Erik! This mad scheme would work after all!

Erik picked his way around the various traps he had planted in the passage with greater care than usual. Normally, he would walk blindly though the dark, trusting his instincts to guide him. Erik knew the position of each and every trigger and what each did. Even if he did slip and activate a trap, he trusted that he would be able to move out of the way in time. With Christine in his arms, Erik's mind was muddled with the sweet feeling of her weight against his body. And even so, he refused to take any unnecessary chances with his angel. As long as Erik lived, he would not let any harm come to her, especially at his own hands.

Erik was quite proud of how he had been able to quell his volatile temper so far in her presence, and even negate it when Christine was elsewhere. Prior to meeting his angel, Erik had lived life with one motto to guide all actions: Do unto others what they have done unto you. Well, the world had hated Erik. It had tortured him, starved him, sickened him, raped his mind and soul. Why should he feel any different towards his captivators? That is, until he met Christine. At first, she was the one person he held absolutely no resentment, but rather love, towards. Now it seemed that she was a beacon of light to him, nurturing this new feeling of peace inside of him.

It was strange to live without a constant feeling of hate within him. Strange to feel… normal. Well, at least more normal than Erik had ever felt in his life. It seemed that each day, his hate faded a bit and tranquility took its place. Of course, it would be foolish to believe that Erik could ever forgive the world entirely. But still, the changes were there. And Christine was entirely responsible for this blessed transmutation.

 _Ah, Christine_...

She was exceptionally lovable in that moment. And so understanding! He knew the temptation she must be fighting right now, to open her eyes and look around her. But Erik didn't come this way often, and hadn't checked his traps for a while. In case someone had been sneaking around his kingdom, Erik couldn't very well say the smell was a dead rat with Christine looking at the very same corpse. He truly hoped that no one had died here recently. Otherwise, he would have to dispose of the body when instead; Erik could be disposing of even more barriers between Christine and himself.

Erik looked down at Christine and smiled once more. It had not escaped his notice that he was carrying Christine bridal style. Erik could not stop marveling at how well she fit into his arms. This was so perfect, couldn't she see that? Couldn't Christine see that they were meant for each other? Christine was the ying to his yang, the light to his dark, the sun to his moon. The traits of one balanced the other's out, as nature intended it to be. Surely Christine saw that – and if not, she would with time. Ah, Erik couldn't wait for the day when he and Christine would be one and she would be irrevocably his. The gentle swaying of her in his arms, the imprint of her body on his chest did nothing to discourage these notions. One day it would all be real! One day Erik would be able to truly carry Christine in this way, as his living wife.

Erik was truly sorry that he had to scheme and plot so to win her. And the poor girl didn't even know the fate she was barreling towards. Erik knew that she didn't deserve the hand life was about to deal her. But had Erik deserved what God had dealt him?

As sorry as Erik was, he would create a happy ending for himself even if it killed him to do it.


	27. Chapter 27

Christine stepped into Erik's house and internally sighed in relief. She had come to view Erik's house as an escape from the pains of day to day life. Here, Christine did not have to worry about Madame Valarius' increasingly poor condition, the gossip of the opera, or the resentful stares she received when she was with Raoul. Here there was nothing but a still quiet, broken only by music and pleasant conversation. But everything had its price.

In exchange for the peace Erik brought Christine, she was forced to face an ever growing feeling of anxiety and insatiable curiosity. Christine had already decided that Erik was more than slightly mad. As if the dress wasn't enough evidence, who but a madman would cover his face for no reason and live under an opera house? Erik was unpredictable. He had just asked her earlier if she trusted him, and she had been forced to lie. Of course Christine did not trust Erik! But what else could she say without sending him into one of his many dark moods?

However on the same note, as hard as she tried, Christine could not deny the connection she felt between Erik and herself. Christine had never known anyone besides her father who shared such a love of music and few people understood her so well.

But the core of Christine's dilemma was that damned mask. She had known Erik as a man rather than an angel for months now! She considered the two of them to be good friends! Yet she still knew next to nothing about Erik! Anytime she broached the topic of his past he insisted on changing the subject and any hint on her part on what might lie beneath his mask sent Erik into a deep depression. Erik had asked her if she trusted him. The real question was whether he trusted her.

Perhaps it was this train of thought that forced Christine to face Erik, who was just coming back from inspecting his alarms. Perhaps it was this that caused Christine to pull herself close to and tentatively run her fingers through the hair of a speechless Erik. Perhaps it was this that made her whisper "Forgive me" before she pulled the white porcelain off Erik's face.

Christine's mouth opened in silent horror. She swayed.

Then the world went black.

 **A/N: Ah it's been over two months! I'm so sorry! But what can I say but life! I had a physics project, the graduation, trips with friends, and work! I thought that I'd have more time to write after college was out, but apparently without a set, unchanging schedule I'm at a loss for setting time away for stuff. My bad and I am sorry. Hope this cliffhanger makes up for it ;) I'll try to update soon. Please review! Reviews remind me to write!**


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N Just a heads up, after some careful consideration, I've decided to bump the rating up to M. To fully express and write this story, I will have to use mature themes. I'm pretty sure I've pushed the T rating to the max, and I don't want to take the chance of scaring an eleven year old because there's some pretty dark bits. Well, probably to a lot of people it won't be M worthy but I'd rather err on the side of caution than take a risk. Anyway, fifty reviews! Thank you so much! Enjoy the chapter and please take the time to review!**

Christine's face came even closer to Erik's.

 _My God, is this really happening?_

Erik closed his eyes and leaned toward Christine. This was the moment Erik had been hoping for! Ah, and sweet Christine had initiated it! Had Erik not known better he would have thought that this was but a dream! The sweetest dream any man could create! At last, he –

Erik realized that the familiar pressure of the mask was no longer on his face. Cool air stroked and soothed his rough, chafed skin.

No, it was merely a trick! Simply his mind hallucinating!

 _It can't be. I won't_ let _it be that._

 _But what if it is?_

Blind panic filled Erik's mind.

Erik's eyes snapped open.

His angel was looking at him with terror marring her perfect features. Both pairs of shocked eyes briefly met before Christine shifted and collapsed into his arms.

 _She didn't…._

 _She_ couldn't _have…_

Erik could only look at Christine in astonishment. No, he wouldn't believe it. This had to be some sort of nightmare. How long had it been since he had used morphine? Yes, that must be it, this must be withdrawal symptoms! Soon, he would awake in his own bed. This was nothing but a nightmare, this was –

Erik heard something shatter by his feet. He looked down. The sight of his mask in fragments scattered across the smooth, stone floor greeted him. Erik gently prodded one of the smaller pieces near his foot. He never felt details in his hallucinations. Nothing outside of him and sometimes Christine had weight or feeling; it was all visual and auditory. This would be the optimal way to see what the truth was. Erik's heart leapt into his throat as he carefully bent over to retrieve one of the smaller shards. Erik hesitated, then held the piece up for a closer look. The white porcelain made a stark contrast to the pale matte of his palm, cheerfully, almost mockingly, sparkling at him. He was scared, more scared than he ever remembered. Erik did not know how he would react if this was real. He turned his gaze to Christine. What if she truly had betrayed him? What then? He screwed up his courage and before he could second guess, he closed his hand and squeezed. Immediately, he felt the burst of pain then heard a muted crunch. He reopened his tender hand with a wince and reluctantly peered at what he held. The scrap of porcelain had been reduced to white powder, mixed with crimson blood.

 _…So she had._

Erik looked down at Christine's limp form, dangling from his arms. It was a sight that normally would fill him with sheer joy – and yet, those feelings had now deserted him entirely. All that was left was that ringing silence, a cold feeling creeping into his veins, a bitter taste settling on his tongue. A hot wave of disgust suddenly washed over him. Ah, so she was afraid of monsters, was she?

"Oh no, you won't escape that easily!" Erik growled.

Ignoring the burning pain in his hand, Erik dragged Christine across the room and roughly threw her limp body on the sofa.

"Wake up! Damn you, wake up!" Erik snarled, brutally shaking Christine by the shoulders. He pulled her into a sitting position, but she was dead to the world. She was slouched over, entirely supported by Erik's arms, her head rolled forward.

Erik pushed Christine back onto the sofa in revulsion and stared at her limp body. Abruptly, he stood and stormed to his kitchen, pausing only to violently sweep a vase of flowers onto the floor and stomp the corresponding end table to bits.

In Erik's absence, a brittle calm was restored to the drawing room. But, Erik returned moments later with smelling salts.

He shoved the bottle under Christine's nose and watched her sputter back into the world of the living. Upon seeing his success, Erik threw the bottle to the floor, and crushed it under his foot. He then crossed his arms, looking down at Christine in a stony silence as Christine was left to experience the full effects of the salts.

Christine opened her eyes. She sat up and looked around at the drawing room in passive confusion. After a moment, she noticed Erik standing next to her. She lifted her eyes to meet his. Erik took small satisfaction as he saw Christine remember exactly what she had done. Her gaze strayed to the exposed side of his face and immediately fell.

Christine looked at the floor and sat in silence.

She couldn't even behold the _sight_ of the consequences of her actions! Just like every other damned human being! The foolish girl! Oh she expected a Don Juan, did she? Someone like the boy!

"So you cannot even look at me now."

"Erik," Christine whimpered, "I'm sorry."  
"Sorry? I would hope so."

"I…I thought that it would be alright. I wanted to see who my Angel really was. I thought…It was nothing but a silly quirk of yours."

Christine kept mumbling, but Erik had no idea what she was saying. Her words played in his head on constant repeat.

 _Nothing but a silly quirk of yours._

 _Nothing but a silly quirk of yours._

 _Nothing but a silly quirk of yours._

Nothing _but a silly quirk of yours._

 _Nothing but a_ silly _quirk of yours._

 _Nothing but a silly_ quirk _of yours._

 _Nothing but a silly quirk of_ yours _._

Erik felt something deep within him shatter.

He bared his teeth and launched himself at Christine. The world seemed to slow as he took in the medley of emotion on her face. Sorrow, surprise, and finally, terror. Somehow, Erik could not bring himself to care.

He violently grabbed the sides of Christine's face, pushed her onto the sofa, and pulled himself a hair's width away from her face.

"So you wanted to see who Erik was? What silly quirk he had? Then who is Erik to go against his darling Christine's wishes? You shall see who Erik is! Look upon Erik and take your fill! You'll pay for it soon enough! And Erik wouldn't want to cheat you out of this impromptu freak show!" Erik roared.

"Erik please! I didn't mean to!" Christine cried out.

"Like hell you didn't mean to! Oh you thought yourself so clever, didn't you! Constantly bringing it up, always hinting. Trying to trick your poor, unhappy Erik into showing you what was under the mask!"

"Erik, stop I beg you! I beg - "

Erik interrupted her pleading with voice which was a characture of Christine's own.

"Oh Erik! How I _wish_ I could see your face, your _true_ face! Come come, aren't we _friends_? You can show _me_!"

Another wave of anger wracked Erik's body and his grasp on Christine tightened. He leaned forward, shifting more of his imposing weight onto her body.

"What did you expect? One of your damned Swedish fairytale princes in hiding? Well now you know! You know what a handsome man Erik is! Oh Erik could certainly rival all of them up there! That's why Erik lives in a burrow! Oh it makes such perfect sense! My dear, your logic is utterly _infallible_!" Erik spat out.

He paused to punctuate this last remark. Before he could open his mouth to unleash another torrent of vile anger, Erik heard Christine take advantage of this temporary quiet. She harshly gasped,

"Erik…Stop…I…Breathe"

It was desperation in her voice, somehow different than the whining begging of before, which caused Erik to take a better look at Christine. He felt Christine's small hands on his shoulders, pushing him away with all her might. Christine's eyes were drenched, she was sobbing, and her face was almost blue. Erik's train of thought halted. Her face was _blue_?

Erik froze and his eyes moved down. He realized that his hands had slipped from Christine's face and instead gripped her white throat. Erik was suddenly aware of the sound of Christine wheezing.

Horrified, he relinquished his hold on her and staggered back as far as the small room would allow him too.

Upon being released, Christine immediately sat up and clutched her poor, bruised neck and gasped roughly. A fragile silence settled over the room, punctuated by the sound of heavy panting and the occasional sob.

The reality of almost losing Christine to his anger immediately sobered Erik. He forced himself to calm down, forced himself to fold his hands across his chest, forced himself to take deep breaths.

"Erik," Christine hoarsely cried, "Erik, please forgive me."

Erik looked at Christine in stony silence. She reciprocated it, albeit with a difference silence. He could see her pleading eyes, and the hope that was in them.

But she still could not look at him.

"Christine."  
Her eyes darted toward his feet and back again.

The minutes ticked by and yet neither made any effort to move from their positions, Erik staring daggers at Christine and Christine sitting on the sofa, gasping and massaging her throat.

"Tell me, Christine… Did you see the sun earlier today?" Erik asked abruptly, "Did you look at the clouds and enjoy the blue sky, the fresh air, the hum of life all around you? Did you stop to hear the birds sing? Did you enjoy the warmth and soak into your skin? Did you take the time to notice any of those things?"  
Christine furiously shook her head.

"Pity. That was your last chance to enjoy any of it."


	29. Chapter 29

Christine numbly watched Erik turn on his heel and coldly stride out of the room. She heard a door slam.

Faint violin music could be heard, but Christine was too dazed to listen.

Christine blinked, her oxygen starved brain not fully comprehending what Erik had said. The last time… that she would ever see the… the sun again? What did he mean by that? What he said didn't make any sense, how could she not see the sun? Did he mean that winter was coming? He had said it with such stark intent as well, which confused Christine… It would be impossible for Christine to not see the sun after he took her back up to the surface… Christine shook her head. It didn't matter right now; she had plenty of time to worry later. Now, she had to attend to her own needs.

Christine shakily rose from the sofa and tried to stand up. The floor bucked and squirmed and Christine threw her arms out as the stone quickly rose up to meet her face. The impact didn't help her bruised body. She lay there, curled up in a heap for who knew how long. Eventually Christine found the strength to try again. Christine turned to shift her weight onto her forearms, knees bent beneath her. From this position, she was able to pull herself up, using the sofa for balance.

Christine took a shaky step in the direction of the bathroom. As soon as her hand left the back of the sofa, she felt herself falling again. She stumbled as fast as her legs would allow her and caught the door frame just in time.

Just a few feet! Just a few steps! And here she was, winded and fatigued! Christine gulped air in and out of her lungs, clutching the solid wood for dear life.

Christine looked up and examined the hallway before her, desperately searching for something to cling to as she made her way. The candles flickered uncertainly, as if they were afraid of the darkness that was threatening to snuff them out. The dark wooden doors, so perfectly lined in a row, had never looked more foreboding.

No, besides the doors, there was nothing. There was nothing to cling to in that dark hallway! And of course the bathroom would have to be at the very end of it! Christine closed her eyes. She could not see any other way. She loosened her grip on the door frame and slid to the floor.

It pained her! The very thought of the act brought embarrassment and humiliation to every fiber of her being! But what other option did she have? Christine took as deep of a breath as her protesting body would allow her to.

She crawled.

* * *

The only sounds that broke the heavy silence were Christine's own muted groans of pain.

Christine was now able to stand. Water had refreshed her and stabilized her poor brain. Christine had taken the opportunity to examine herself. She didn't need a mirror to know that her throat was a mess, it was exquisitely tender to the touch and Christine could only draw ragged breath. But, she was certain that Erik had cracked one of her ribs as well and had given her a rather nasty bump on the head.

Christine was horrified with the turn the day had taken. Oh, why had she ever removed the mask? Look at what happened! Oh, things were now a muddled mess. What was under the mask had horrified Christine and then Erik had terrified her. When Erik pinned her down, Christine thought that she would die! His weight on her chest, around her throat, his booming voice shouting terrible things, saliva flying, and that… that _face_ centimeters away from hers…

It was so much more horrible that Christine could ever have imagined. She didn't know what she expected – but it certainly wasn't _that_.

Poor Erik! To be cursed with such a face! No wonder he hid!

The left side was perfect, the right side was another story entirely! The nose collapsed in on itself, bones jutting out at odd angles, not enough skin…

You could see each and every muscle in his face, and where there were no muscles…there was no _skin_.

The only thing worse than seeing his face was seeing it when he was shouting. That _face_ , in every respect seeming as if half of it was decaying, looming over her own! Seeing the few strands of skin connecting his cheekbone and jaw hideously stretch, seeing the glimmer of his teeth shine dully through the unnatural gaps!

The memory of it all was too much for Christine. She sank down to the floor and started to sob uncontrollably.

The meaning of Erik's last words dawned on Christine suddenly, knocking the breath out of her lungs once again. He intended to trap her in this dungeon too! He swore that she would never see the light of day again! What a horrid thought, to never see the sun, the sky, or the flowers again! She was now not a visitor to this underground world, but its prisoner!

A sharp stab of agony pierced Christine's gut, seemingly ripping her in two. She curled in on herself, trying to stop herself from shattering completely, and wept. She could not live here! Without seeing the outside world, Christine would wither away like a sun-deprived flower and die! What would Erik _do_ with her as his captive? Especially after getting so horribly angry with Christine! Would she live in a hell of hatred and self-loathing for the rest of her days? Would both parties pretend that the incident never occurred and maintain a façade of coordinal politeness? Which was worse?

And as if the agony she was enduring needed more fuel, her emotions were a mess. The wretched misery of it all!

Part of her horribly pitied poor, unhappy Erik for being born with such an affliction! How could the man have stood it for so long? How could he bear it all when the sight of his true face was enough to send anyone swooning and crying in terror? Christine had promised herself that she would not flinch no matter what it was, but how could she have known!

And her guilt! Merciful God, it was eating away at her, gnawing at every edge of her soul! Christine did betray Erik's trust, there was no denying it. What she did to him was horrible; of course he would want to hide his face! And she stripped the bit of shelter the mask gave Erik away from him.

But even so, Christine could not forgive Erik for what he did to her. This was disgusting, an atrocity! For him to treat her so! A new, bitter part of her hated Erik for it. Absolutely, unconditionally hated him and threatened to swallow everything else into its black pit of loathing. He had almost killed her! And think of everything that was now ruined! She might as well chuck her singing career out the window along with her trust for Erik. She couldn't breathe, let alone _sing_ with a broken rib and being half choked to death!

And yet, she also still loved him. He had been in her life far too long for her not to. He had helped her recover from the blow that was the death of her father, taught her everything she knew about music, and had been her best friend until moments ago. Christine could not deny the bond that existed between them, an attachment hopefully strong enough to brave this storm.

Erik started to play his violin again. The music hit Christine's inner ear, impossible to ignore at this proximity. For all intents and purposes, it sounded like one sob, a melody of continual crying and pain. It fed into Christine's own inner torment, fueling and driving her own sorrow.

Christine lay there and cried until she ran out of tears to shed. Hours later, she was in the same position, looking so much like the broken girl who cried herself to sleep every night so many years ago.

Yes, things were a huge mess. Christine should never have touched his mask. She knew that she would somehow have to find a way to apologize to Erik, and find a way for him to apologize to _her_. Most importantly, she had to get herself out of this underground hell. Christine was faced with a Herculean task. She should have regretted her decision with every fiber of her being.

But as much as she tried to deny it to herself, deep down, she did not.

Because now Christine _knew_.

 **A/N I just wanted to share how much Pokémon Go has ruined, although I prefer to think of it as enhanced, my life. I was listening to the Pokémon theme song on repeat as I wrote this chapter lol. I'm writing about suffering while listening to a happy song about friendship and adventure. With Pokémania starting up again I'm basically reliving my childhood and loving every minute of it. If you're Team Instinct let me know with a review and we can worship our team leader and Lord and Savior, Spark together. If you're Valor or Mystic let me know with a review! Review!**


	30. Chapter 30

Christine stared at the foreboding door before her. Erik holed himself up in his bedroom for what Christine guessed was about two days. Not once had he come out and given Christine an opportunity to try and make amends. So, she would have to go to him.

But she was frightened! Oh, so terribly frightened! Erik had almost killed her! What was to stop him from losing control again and finishing the deed, intentionally or not? And Christine herself had cleaned up the fragments of his mask – if he did not have another one and Christine saw Erik's face, she could not promise that she would not faint again.

Erik had once promised her, "You have no better, more loyal friend in the world than myself – as long as you do not touch the mask." Well, she had. Would he still be her friend, or was he now exclusively her jailer?

Christine did not know what she could possibly tell Erik that would help the situation in any way. Other than prostrating herself at his feet and begging for forgiveness, Christine had no inkling of what to say. How could she even explain her actions? She had no good reason to tear the mask away, other than being curious. Certainly Erik would not want to hear that!

Christine buried her face in her hands. Massaging her temples gently, she searched for an excuse, any excuse other than the truth!

She could find none.

The gnawing feeling in her chest only intensified, and she wanted nothing more than to turn back. But to let Erik sit and stew in his somewhat rightful anger would be potentially devastating. Christine had already let countless hours slip by, she could not afford to sit still any longer! She timidly raised her hand and paused just before knocking on the door. Her entire body trembled, her eyes were watering again, and anxiety threatened to send her into a warm cocoon of unconsciousness. But what other choice did Christine have?  
She closed her eyes and knocked.

Minutes passed.

No response.

Christine knocked a little louder and gently called, "Erik?"  
Nothing.

"Erik!" Christine shouted as she pounded the door. "Erik – please, please come out."  
Christine could not hold her tears back any longer. As she hammered on the door, she called out in a tear-choked voice, "Erik, please. I want to talk to you."

She was feeling dizzy again. Christine sank down and sat with her back to the door.

"Please, I… miss you."

There she sat, silent tears running down her cheeks, now sat at the brink of hopelessness. What could she do now?

Suddenly, Christine felt the supporting wood at her back give way and disappear. She lost her balance and fell to the floor. Quickly, she pushed herself up onto her hands and looked up.

Erik stood, impassively staring down at Christine. From her vantage point on the floor, Erik had never looked so foreboding. Thankfully, he was wearing another mask, albeit one of black porcelain. He gave no sort of encouragement or discouragement to Christine, it seemed that he was a passive observer in Christine's drama. Erik simply stood, gazing down at Christine.

Christine leaned back and sat, pulling her hands into her lap.

"Erik… I…"

"What is it you want, Christine?" Erik asked, his voice completely devoid of any emotion, "You very well know where the all the amenities of the house are. You're not a child; you don't need ask permission to feed or bathe yourself."

He started to close the door on poor Christine's stunned features.

Just before the door was closed completely on the last hope Christine had, she cried out, "Erik, no!" and pushed the door open.

Erik's features hardened.

"Are you intent on disregarding even more of my privacy? Do you wish to rifle through my belongings, perhaps read my personal papers? Is that what you want?"

Christine quickly scrambled off the floor and stood up.

"Erik, no. I came… I came to say that I am so sorry for what I did to you." Christine drew a deep breath. "It was very, very wrong for me to remove your mask. I… I have never regretted anything as much in my life. Please, I beg you, forgive me. Please."

Erik did not reply. He simply stood there, staring down at her.

Christine traced her dry lips with her tongue.

She took a hesitant step toward Erik.

"Erik, p-please."

She gently took Erik by the arm and lightly tugged.

"Please, come with me. L-let's to the drawing room. Let's go and sing. Perhaps we could sing the duet from Othello; I know that you like that very much. Come on Erik, let's – "

Erik whipped his arm away from Christine's grasp and hissed,

"Do not touch me."

He leaned closer and maliciously said, "Do not filthy me with your touch. I trusted you. I gave you my sacred trust and you broke it."

He straightened himself to his full height and continued, "What reason did Erik give his Christine to force Erik to show her his ghastly features? When did Erik ever betray his Christine? No, Christine thought herself a modern Perseus (?), did she not? Well, Christine is Pandora. She has opened the box, but this time, there is no friendly, redeeming spirit to right her misdeed!"

Erik's tirade had reduced Christine to tears once more. What could she say? What defense did she have? He was right!

Christine quickly, impulsively threw her arms around Erik, sobbing hot tears into his chest. He stiffened, but he did not push Christine away. "Erik, you're entirely right, what I did was monstrous, please forgive me! Forgive me!"

She tried to continue but her sorrow constricted her throat so that the painful tingling cut her words off. All she could do was clutch Erik tightly, like a child who has had a nightmare, and cry.

There they stood in the doorway. Minutes ticked past. The only noise that filled the small house was the sound of Christine's uncontrollable sobbing.

Finally, Christine felt a hand tentatively stroke her hair.

"Shh, Christine, shh." Erik whispered. "I cannot entirely forgive you now. But I will try, in time I'm sure I will. But you must understand why I am and was so furious. All I ever asked of you was to not touch the mask."  
He gently pushed Christine off of him and firmly grasped her by the shoulders. Erik's eyes bore into hers.

"I must ask, why? Why?"  
In her state, Christine could not have known that Erik had used the voice of the now defunct Angel of Music. Christine, being unschooled in the sciences entirely, could never have known about conditioning, not that she would have been able to realize it being as emotionally compromised as she now was. Thinking back to this moment later, Christine would berate herself for her foolishness and wonder why on Earth she had spoken so.

"Because I was curious."  
Erik's eyes hardened and his lips became a thin line. He pushed her away and sent her falling to the floor.

"You little devil! Curious? Curious like everyone else is curious! Curious like all those damned crowds who gawked and stared at my face, who tried to kill me for something I cannot help!"  
Erik stepped over Christine and stomped down the hallway. She heard his voice booming from the drawing room.

"Curious! Curiosity killed the cat, you know – let's see what curiosity does to Christine!"  
The door opened and slammed shut. Christine heard the lock click, and then, silence.


	31. Chapter 31

Footsteps echoed throughout the deserted corridors, occasionally punctuated by the sharp, startled squeaks of rats. The lake glowed with its curious blue light, casting eerie shadows on the sharp outcroppings of rock that lined it. The footsteps grew louder, closer, and a shadowy figure emerged from a pocket of darkness. After walking along the lakeside for a few meters, this phantom suddenly stopped and approached the icy lake waters. He stood there in silence for several moments, peering into and beneath the iridescent waves that quietly lapped at his feet. Suddenly, he wrenched his arm back and threw something as far as he could manage into the lake. There was a moment's wait and a sharp splash – and then the figure swiftly turned and disappeared once more. The footsteps grew softer, less distinguishable, and finally disappeared.

Erik paced the corridors of his kingdom.

 _Curious! Christine was curious about Erik's face! And the fool Erik was, Erik had been duped again! Oh Erik had almost fallen into her trap again! The little minx had pressed Erik's buttons and finally had found Erik's weak spot!_

The hug had nearly devastated Erik. The first time in all his life that he had ever been hugged! And by Christine nonetheless! Oh when he felt her arms wrap around him, he thought he would die! In that moment, he would have forgiven her; he would have forgiven the world! Erik would have prostrated himself at Christine's feet and wept!

But then he asked Christine for her reasons!

Had Erik not have used the Angel's voice on his angel, Christine would have deceived her Erik again!

Erik, filled with a fresh burst of anger, kicked an old skull, a victim of one of the many defenses lining his home, as hard as he could. The bone soared into the air, grinning at him as it spun, a mirror of him.

A mirror of what Christine had seen.

The thought sent a shudder through him, a shameful wave of misery. Erik couldn't hold it back – he doubled over, feeling his breath catch in his throat as he began to cry. He clutched the wall for support and ripped off his mask. Hot tears burned the delicate side of Erik's face as he sobbed.

 _Christine has ruined everything! She wasn't supposed to see! How am I to win her love now? How is Erik to fix this mess?_

He clenched his fist, a dark feeling of hatred and abhorrence building in him.

Christine had denied Erik! She tore off the mask, but she could not look! Even she could not bear the sight of Erik's face, even after knowing him for so long!

She took off his mask, she _made_ him act the way she did!

Now Christine too thought of Erik as a monster.

Just a monster.

A fresh burst of agony hit Erik. He shoved his fist into his mouth and bit down on his finger to stifle the sounds of his sobs.

He couldn't even cry in his own home.

Erik's home, his one shelter from the world, was now a memory of what once was. A reminder of what now would never be.

Was there truly no sanctuary for the outcast?

He was alone, all alone once again.

No one knew… no one cared.

No one in this whole wrenched world!

Even Christine! Oh in hindsight he saw her intent! She simply wanted to save her own skin; she did not _care_ about Erik's pain, what _he_ went through! No, all she did was apologize, she never once asked about him! Only how sorry she was, how monstrous she had been! Not that that last statement wasn't true, but nevertheless! Not _once_ did she stop to ask Erik how he _felt_! How he had been _holding up_ while Christine _moped_ around his house.

Christine did not know that Erik had been in an _agony_! Erik had prepared to surrender his secret eventually, but on his _own_ terms! Not like _this_! _Never_ like this!

Christine had unleashed the beast within him, born and raised out of hatred and retribution. Like a lion poked and prodded and finally released out of his cage, he had attacked the one who provoked him to do so. And now _Erik_ looked like the fiend! Because of what the world _did_ to Erik!

Because of what _Christine_ had done to him!

And she did not know of his resulting pain! Of the agony his soul endured, continuously torn between fluttering to its traitor of a mistress and running away to save itself.

No one knew…

But they _could_ …

Erik felt a familiar feeling tug at the edges of his soul. It wrapped its silken arms around him, whispered seductively in his ear. It promised no more pain – but instead satisfaction, _retribution_ for the wrongs he had been forced to endure. His old friend, one who had helped him to escape those who enslaved him, who had freed him from the prison of his own mind so long ago.

Erik stood up to fully embrace its beckoning. He felt the agony that had so wracked him before quickly fall away.

The delicate scaffolding of his mind that he had built under Christine's loving guidance collapsed as Erik felt himself slip back into the dark, velvety embrace of madness.

Erik began to chuckle, which quickly evolved into uncontrolled cackling. He was entirely unable to stop himself.

Had any soul been unfortunate enough to chance upon Erik in this state, they certainly would have experienced one of the most terrifying last moments of life anyone ever could.

Erik, tall and clad entirely in black, doubled down in laughter with tears still streaming down his face. A turn of his head, and you catch a glimpse of the full sight of his face – half human, half demon. A flick of the wrist, a snap, and the entire world is gone, the image of that face the only thing you can remember as you fade into oblivion.

God alone knows how long Erik stood there, laughing.

After all, the solution was so _obvious_ , how could Erik had not seen it before?

Suddenly, as quickly as he had started, Erik stopped.

An uneasy silence settled down over the rotting stones of Erik's kingdom, interrupted only by the occasional drip of water.

Erik swiftly stowed his mask in his jacket and stood with renewed intent.

 _Let them know._

 _Let the_ world _know of Erik's pain!_

* * *

Five stories above, it was early morning and a comforting darkness had instilled itself in the Opera Populaire. The porcelain statues, the polished marble gave no reason for fear. Nighttime was soothing in the Palis Gardier. Anyone who loved the beauty of this cathedral of music had no reason to fear its dark. Especially since the Phantom had thankfully given up on playing his games on the poor residents of the Populaire in these past months.

But then, a shadow was glimpsed and promptly vanished.

The night watchman shook his head and headed back towards his office to fetch a strong cup of coffee.

As soon as his back turned, a statue seemed to stir.

Almost as if the Gardier sensed the return of its master, unease slowly permeated the air. The paintings seemed infinitely more sinister, and one could have sworn that the statues followed any intruder with their unseeing eyes.

But it was the collective exhausted minds simply playing a mass trick, was it not?

On the fourth story of the Populaire, a lone figure sat in a dark corner. Had the moon not been visible, he would have simply been a part of the architecture of the darkness, another shade among shades. The large window at the end of hall illuminated all with smooth silver light. Perhaps it is why this man chose to favor this particular spot, rather than his usual corner on the third floor.

Joseph Buquet was hard at work, trying to untangle a fiercely twisted rope. Bundles of thick twine were scattered around him; but if one examined them long enough, it seemed the man had taken an artistic approach to creating two piles – one for knotted and another for unknotted ropes.

Although his attention was fixed on the rope and on the rope alone, Buquet thought he saw something move. Instinctively, his eyes snapped up and scanned the room. The corridor of doors, stained monochromatic, seemed to stretch out endlessly in the dark, interrupted only by the occasional statue or painting. Other than the curtains fluttering in some invisible draft, there was no sign on movement.

Buquet internally shrugged and busied himself on his work. He certainly could do this before work tomorrow, but he enjoyed the solitude and quiet. God knew that there wasn't any of that at home with Marie. The bitch was constantly nagging him, complaining, always on about something.

How he wished he could somehow escape his marriage.

Alcohol provided a temporary retreat from the hell that was his life. That stuff was bottled happiness, priced at the entirely reasonable sum of a few francs.

Buquet glanced over at the half full bottle sitting next to him and smiled. His only true friend in this world. Wine didn't judge you, wine listened and helped you. Ah, how he wanted to drink in that Elysium and vanish into the sparkling world that danced and sung. But he had to finish his task first.

Even the alcoholic has some system of delayed gratification.

But he wouldn't have to wait if the ropes would be more cooperative with him! His thick fingers were sore and scratched from constantly having to push and pull the twine, burned from tugging on a rope that would not budge. God damn it to hell, if only –

There was a pair of shoes standing in front of him. Buquet blinked and took a second look. They certainly were there, shined to a mirror perfection and glinting in the moonlight. And they were attached to someone.

His eyes travelled up the figure. Obviously a gentleman, judging from his exquisitely fashionable clothes. Had some bourgeois gotten lost in the vast and seemingly unending halls?

Then he saw it.

The demonic face he had only glimpsed before was now staring him down, a gruesome excuse for a grin on those ghastly features. Merciful God, at this proximity, it was even worse than Buquet could ever have thought!

Buquet felt panic rise into his throat with the taste of bile. He unsuccessfully attempted to swallow both down.

He was on his feet in an instant, bolting for the exit, anything, anything at all to escape this ghost. As he ran, he sent a silent prayer to God. He would give up drinking, he would give Marie a living child, anything, _anything_ to escape this ungodly demon!

But just as the door was in sight and Buquet thought that the nightmare was coming to an end, he felt something grab his foot and sharply pull. The floor abruptly leapt up to meet him, adding to the vertigo.

Like an animal caught in a trap, he tried to pull and pull against the rope, all the while shouting for anyone, _anything_ but _him_. But it was no use and finally out of exhaustion Buquet was forced to give it up.

He heard the sound of unhurried measured footsteps accompanied by sinister chuckling.

He turned to face his pursuer, scrambling to pull himself away on his elbows.

"M-m-mons-"

If anything that grisly smile grew even wider.

"Good evening Monsuir Buquet," he heard an exquisitely smooth voice reply. "After hearing you talk so much about me, I thought it high time to pay my biggest admirer a visit."  
The ghost put a long leg on Buquet's chest and leaned his weight forward.

"Monsuir le Fantome, please!" Buquet choked out.

"Tell me, did you enjoy the attention you got out of your ill-gotten information?" the monster purred, "Did you enjoy the looks of horror on the ballet corps' faces when you told them of my face? Shame you were only half right."  
Buquet saw the demon turn to unwind something that was tangled around Buquet's foot.

"But Joseph, I'm afraid you've stepped too far this time. Breathing lies into the company's ears about Mademoiselle Daae? Implying that she made a deal with the devil? I'm flattered you think so highly of me, but I am no Lucifer. You should know what happens to those who degrade my chosen few."

Buquet could only stare at the devil in horror.

He felt a gloved hand slip under Buquet's chin and gently push upwards.

"Close your mouth, there's a good man. Please remember to be respectful in my company, I am a _gentleman_ after all."

Suddenly, the ghost threw his head back and laughed. The pressure on Buquet's chest increased and he was reduced to fighting for each and every breath he took.

Then as quickly as it had started, the phantom sobered. He then looked down and stared at his prey. Buquet's terror only increased when he saw that the monster's eyes glowed an unnatural yellow in the moonlight.

The demon then leaned in close and whispered in Buquet's ear, "When you get to heaven, tell Him that Erik has one question for Him: Who is the _real_ monster, He or I?"

Buquet felt something slip beneath his ears and around his neck. Suddenly, the monster stood up straight and in his last milliseconds of consciousness, Buquet felt something tighten around his neck while still being held down by the demon's foot.

A sharp cracking sound echoed in the deserted halls of the third floor.

Then all was silent again.

 **A/N: If you want have an even better idea of how I envision Erik's current state of mind, give** ** _Heaven_** **by Star Fucking Hipsters a listen (or a lyrics lookup. It can be hard to understand the lyrics perfectly).**


	32. Chapter 32

The first thing that he was aware of was a warm yellow light, playing with his eyelids, coaxing them to open. The feeling of soft fabric enveloping him then was made itself known. And finally, a feeling of hot, moist breath in his face. Raoul smiled, but still kept his eyes firmly shut. He knew that his dog knew that Raoul was simply pretending, but it was a morning ritual for the tow of them. After teasing out the moment for just a little while longer, Raoul opened his eyes. A huge, furry face, mere centimeters away from his own, gazed at Raoul expectantly. Upon seeing his master awake, the dog was incapable of restraining himself any longer. The dog became one fluid motion of squirming, wriggling fur.

Raoul knew exactly what was coming next and quickly sat up. A millisecond later, the exceptionally large Briard had joined his master on the bed and demanded to be cuddled. Raoul was more than happy to accommodate. It was a routine that neither had any intention of breaking, much to Phillipe's open disapproval.

Raoul smiled and vigorously obliged Loupy, who was begging for a belly scratch. As if he would ever treat Loup like the dog he was! Loup was like a brother to Raoul! A shaggy, non-human brother, but one nonetheless. No matter what Phillipe said. After all, Loupy had been in Raoul's life for the past fourteen years. Since Loup was a pup, Raoul had insisted that he share his living quarters. At first, Phillipe had agreed to humor young, seven year old Raoul who was afraid of the dark. Loup kept Raoul safe and asleep in his bed and out of Phillipe's. But as time passed and Raoul no longer needed the comfort of another, Phillipe began to press Raoul to put Loupy with the other dogs in the de Chagny kennel and act his age. After all, they were de Chagnys! Counts of France did not behave like peasants and live with animals, as Phillipe was so fond of reminding Raoul. But Raoul steadfastly refused and finally Phillipe tired of their pointless arguments, settling for the occasional snide remark. Phillipe thought he had a chance at pushing Raoul into becoming a real de Chagny when Raoul had announced one evening that he was becoming a sailor. But even then, Raoul gleefully recounted, he had outsmarted Phillipe.

As the Viscount of a highly respected family, he had a fair amount of influence in certain government circles. It was expected that a young man of Raoul's social standing would be able to… request certain privileges to help them ease into the life of a seaman. Whereas most other aristocrats would ask for favors such as the pleasant company of a woman, fine liquors, or extended leave while at port, Raoul simply requested that he would be able to bring his fine _hunting_ dog on board to catch any rats the ship may or may not have had. The only thing that Loupy caught on board was Raoul's attention.

And now that Raoul was a man by any account, Phillipe had no right to tell him what he could or could not do. Raoul was a sailor in the French navy, soon to become explorer, and he had a fine career ahead of him. An upstanding addition to the proud de Chagny line, by any definition. But there was still one aspect of Raoul's life that Phillipe could not help but try to meddle with.

Phillipe absolutely loathed the idea of Raoul pledging himself to an Opera singer. But Raoul honestly could not care less about his brother's opinion. Especially when it came to Christine.

 _Ah Christine!_

Just the thought of his love made Raoul's insides happily bubble, as if he were filled to the brim with golden champagne.

Raoul rolled over onto his side and hugged Loupy close to him. He whispered in the dog's ear, "Everything is so close now, boy! One day soon, when we get back from the North Pole, it'll be just the three of us. You, me, and Christine. We'll be a family."

Raoul was cut off by the dog turning to lick his face in shared excitement. He laughed and finally got up, leaving Loup to roll and play in the excess of comforters and sheets. Raoul smiled and shook his head. Fourteen years old and the dog still acted like a pup. Raoul turned to get dressed and otherwise make himself presentable for what the day might bring.

 _Well, let Loupy protest what I wish I could._

Although the life he had was very comfortable, Raoul could not help but feel that the excess was overly ridiculous. The entire life of a viscount was marked by veneers and daily masquerades. The aristocracy made up for the lack of sincerity in their lives with comfort, fashion, and the farce of respectability. Nothing was what it seemed. Even the great de Chagnys were no exception. While publically Phillipe mourned the death of his wife and child, scarcely a day went by where La Sorelli did not share Phillipe's evening and bed. At this point, it was stranger for Raoul to not greet Sorelli at the breakfast table than to share a meal with her. And yet publically, he had seen Phillipe shun Sorelli, to even call her a whore when talking to other aristocracy! God, Raoul hated the lot of them.

Raoul had always wanted to get away, to make a name for himself and remove himself from the charade that was Parisian society. To take Loup and move to some town in the country and support the pair of them with funds that he himself had earned, not taken from the taxes of the French people. This was precisely the reason that Raoul had become a sailor and slaved away for eighteen awful months. And with the money that this expedition to the North Pole would bring, Raoul would have enough saved to buy a château in the country and start his own manor. And as if the future weren't any brighter, Christine would be there to share it all with him!

 _Ah, sweet Christine!_

 _Mon trésor! I love her so much!_

He had loved Christine since they were children, even if it took him years to realize it. Since that far away time when they had played together, learned together, and explored together, Raoul had loved her. And when he had first seen her on the stage, all those years later, the force of his love had quite literally knocked him off his feet. He had been terrified, not of the intensity of his feelings, but of the chance that those feelings would be rejected. With a wince, he remembered his horrid mistake of taking a shot of whiskey at Phillipe's suggestion. Yes he wanted to steel his courage, but not to come off as one of _them_ , one of Phillipe's brand of gentlemen. Ah! He was so horrible! Implying that to sing, Christine must have become some man's mistress! Then insisting that Christine dine with him, regardless of what he said! And his boasting as he went to get his carriage! _God!_ Raoul could not help but smack himself on the head. And those rumors the next day, all because he couldn't keep his drunken mouth shut!

But no matter, it was all in the past. Christine understood. She always understood and forgave him, even when he made the most horrible mistakes. Like the time that Raoul had taken Christine out on an intended romantic boat ride, only for Raoul to beach the boat on the only shallow spot in the middle of the lake, forcing the pair to swim back. Raoul shuttered. It was a miracle that with all his errors Christine was still his!

But what Raoul loved most about her was that she didn't lie or put up a façade in front of him. Christine was completely entirely genuine with Raoul about her hope, dreams, and feelings. He knew exactly what she thought of him, what she wanted in life, and her views on life in general. There was only one topic that Raoul never dared broach: The Angel of Music. Christine insisted that she had been taught to sing by an angel of music and since that disastrous night, Raoul had simply agreed. He knew that the topic of the Angel was one very close to Christine since her father's promise. And if she insisted in living in a delusion, so be it. Raoul would support her and help her in any way that he could.

Raoul tightened his silk tie and glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantle. He was late even by French standards. Phillipe wouldn't like Raoul missing from the breakfast table, but Raoul couldn't resist. He quickly unlocked his desk drawer and took out the little velvet box. Raoul looked at it fondly before opening it. The small diamond sparkled and shone at him.

It was perfect, as perfect as the first time it caught his eye in the shop window. Only a few more months it would hide! Then it would be on Christine's finger, a testament to their love for the entire world to see! Raoul would ask Christine to be his lawfully married wife at the Bal Masque at the Opera Populaire. It was perfect! Christine would be surrounded by all she loved, her music and Raoul! And it would hopefully make up for all the mistakes Raoul made with Christine. Then, he would go off to find the lost expedition at the North Pole, come back a hero, marry his love, and they would live happily ever after with Loupy. Ah Raoul couldn't wait!

 **A/N: According to Google, Loup is French for Wolf. Raoul wouldn't name his dog "Crazy." I hope it's accurate, I don't speak French and I didn't feel it appropriate to give a French dog a Russian, German, or English name.**


	33. Chapter 33

Raoul nimbly pressed a hand against the dining room door and peered inside. Phillipe was seated at the end of the long, dark table, his face buried in a newspaper.

 _Good._

Raoul quickly opened the door and winced when it let out a loud _creak_. Phillipe looked up at Raoul from his newspaper, a sour expression on his face.

Raoul gave his brother a tight smile and closed the dark mahogany behind him.

"Good morning Phillipe. Sleep well?"

Phillipe grunted in response and settled back into the paper. No doubt there was something absolutely _facinating_ going on in the Paris stock market. Ignoring this, Raoul sat at his designated place and sipped on the already prepared cup of café au lait before him. As he ate, Raoul attempted to enjoy the morning, the start of a new day but fount it impossible.

It was too quiet.

The only sounds present in the vast room were the sounds of the periodic ticking of the porcelain clock, Raoul's own quiet breathing, and the occasional clink of china.

Much too quiet.

Raoul grasped for anything to fill the heavy silence.

"Did Sorelli already go home?" Raoul abruptly asked.

Phillipe looked up from his newspaper to stare at Raoul in incredulity. Raoul internally winced.

"That is none of your business Raoul. You take too much of an interest in Sorelli."

"I simply look upon her as a friend. She's a lovely person you know." Raoul cocked his head, a small smile on his face, the absolute epitome of innocence. "You should try talking to her sometime, Phillipe."

Phillipe chose to pointedly ignore this none too subtle insult, instead electing to ruffle his newspaper and take another sip of tea.

Raoul reciprocated this gesture and tried to fill his boredom with something, anything! Ah how he wished that someone was here with them. At least when Sorelli spent the night with Phillipe, there was company and pleasant conversation at the breakfast table. But, only Phillippe, some servant girl, and Raoul were in the large, quiet dining room. So, Raoul was forced to pick at his croissant and day dream of his future.

* * *

Raoul hurried into his study, shut the door firmly behind him, and let out a sigh. Finally he could relax! With Phillipe, every moment was quiet and dull and full of propriety. Entirely unwanted and unwelcome, Phillipe's constant reminder echoed in Raoul's head.

 _We're noblemen after all Raoul. You need to grow up and act like a true de Chagny._

Raoul shuttered. At least now, in privacy, he could act like a normal person.

Raoul heard scratching at the door. He smiled and opened the door once more to let Loup in. He gave the dog a good scratch behind the ears before Loup walked over to a nearby pile of blankets, one of the many beds Raoul had made for Loup in his own living quarters, and laid down. Loup fixed Raoul with a loving stare and loudly exhaled before closing his brown eyes to sleep. As Loup's gently snoring filled teh room, Raoul unwillingly turning his attention to the pile of mail sitting on his desk. If only he could ignore it, just for a little while, and doodle or write a short poem instead!

But it was impossible to do so with the pristine white matte paper jumping out at him from the dark, glossy mahogany.

Raoul sat down and stared at the pile for a while, willing it to disappear, before reluctantly picked up the thick, heavy stack.

Ah, so many letters! Why did people bother to write to Raoul anyway? It wasn't as if he was needed anywhere but the Opera and the navy! Or wanted to be anywhere else!

Raoul leaned into his palm and picked through the remaining letters. If only someone would request his presence! Then he would have an excuse to leave before evening! Christine was working today; he couldn't very well bother her without a reasonable excuse until nightfall. If only one of the managers needed him, then he could spend the entire day at the Opera, even watch his beloved work on that new opera. What was the thing about anyway? Something about sea merchants or privateers or something like that…

 _Speak of the devil…_

Raoul held up the letter in elation. Thank God for Andre!

Raoul tore open the envelope and scanned its contents. Raoul held the fine paper up to the light and cocked an eyebrow. The man couldn't have been vaguer if he tried. It was urgent, but Andre couldn't tell Raoul what it was in a letter _due to its sensitive nature_.

 _Whatever that means._

Raoul sighed. Andre probably just had some silly question about costume fabric or other such nonsense. As the de Chagny representative, the managers made every effort to ask his opinion on the productions of the Populaire, to make sure it was up to their patron's _high_ standards.

The only standard Phillipe had was how lithe and bountiful the ballerinas were and if it wasn't for Christine, Raoul had absolutely no interest in any opera.

Raoul put down the note and turned his attention to the next message. Curious, there was no return address. And Raoul's name had been written in crimson ink.

 _Strange._

Raoul didn't even know that red ink existed. And the handwriting… Words could not adiquetly describe it. For one thing, it was written in print, not the cursive that everyone in Europe over the age of ten used. And it was… _horrible_! Raoul could only make out his name because the letters were deliberately spaced far enough apart to distinguish each individual character.

Raoul shrugged and opened the peculiar envelope and emptied its contents. A small, thin paper fluttered out onto the desk. Raoul picked it up to examine it. A clipping from the _Revue théâtrale_. _Strange._

Even stranger the small paper was from the personals section and one of the messages had been circled in the same red ink.

It read:

 _Sjungfågeln är redan fängslad. Dra tillbaka._

 _-E_

Raoul looked at the clipping, confused.

He scratched his head and tried to puzzle out the strange note. He didn't have any friends who would prank him, and as far as Raoul knew, he didn't have any enemies. Perhaps it was a mistake? No of course not this… _E_ took the trouble to make himself anonymous and ensure that Raoul got his message. And what language could it be in? It seemed familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. Perhaps Christine would know, she had travelled Europe with her father as a girl, and as a result, had more experiences in different languages than Raoul did.

Raoul would have to ask her about it when he next saw her.

Raoul put the letter off to the side and went through the remaining letters, his mind wandering all the while. This note nagged at the corners of his mind. There was something Raoul was missing about this strange letter, but for the life of him he couldn't remember.

 _Wait._

How stupid of him! Raoul smacked himself in the head.

Of course! Swedish! This note was in Swedish!

All those years ago Christine tried to teach him her mother tongue! If only he had paid more attention, maybe he could read a bit of this note. But _she_ could! In fact, Raoul would run over to Christine's apartment on his way to the opera, he could ask her straight away, perhaps he could even escort her to the Populaire.

Raoul quickly looked at the clock.

He was late, but perhaps if he hurried he could make it. Raoul ran out of the room, Loup close behind, quickly grabbed his coat, gave orders to the nearest servant to let Loup out into the yard, and ordered his carriage.

* * *

Safely tucked in the privacy of his carriage, Raoul took out the note again. It was strange, too strange. This whole situation was something out of a newspaper serial. Raoul was a simple Viscount; for all intents and purposes he was completely overshadowed by Phillipe. Why would anything like this happen to him?

Raoul internally shrugged.

It was probably nothing. He was probably reading too much into this.

Finally the carriage pulled up next to the dingy building that Christine was forced to call home. Raoul ordered his driver to wait as long as he needed to and walked quickly inside the dingy, grey building.

Once out of sight, Raoul broke into a run, taking the stairs two at a time. Two stories later, he finally saw the little green painted door that marked Christine's apartment.

He quickly rapped on it.

A small eternity later, the door finally opened and Raoul's heart dropped along with his gaze at the sight of Christine's maid.

"Er, Mademoiselle, is your mistress at home?"

The girl silently nodded and beckoned Raoul to follow her. Raoul quickly obliged and stepped into the small room. Raoul had always felt slightly unsettled when he called on Christine. The place was just… odd.

It reeked of age and death.

Both literally and figuratively.

Madame Valarius was dying. Although Raoul would never shatter the fragile hope that Christine had built around herself that her surrogate mother would eventually recover, that was the truth. She had been wasting away for a while now, each day worse than the last.

And even when the good Madame had had her strength, she had kept the apartment as a shrine to her late husband's memory. Everything in the apartment was at least twenty years old, a perfectly preserved time capsule. The only indicators of Christine's presence, outside of her room which Raoul had never had the pleasure of entering, were the sheets of music perfectly stacked on the old, rickety desk and the balcony.

Raoul smiled.

Though the windowed doors, he had a perfect view of the overflowing plants.

Christine was thoroughly a Swedish nymph and when she had moved to the city, she brought a bit of the forest with her.

Ferns lined the wooden outcropping, vines curled around the wrought iron supports, and a variety of potted flowers balanced on the railing.

And she took such care of these delicate florae! Raoul had seen her fuss over these plants as if they were her own children. How he loved her for it!

The maid mutely gestured at Madame Valarius' bedroom door. Raoul blinked, momentarily confused.

Ah.

Internally he groaned. The girl thought he meant… Good God.

Christine was much too kind hearted. No one else would hire this unfortunately stupid girl as a maid, the only job she was capable of managing, so Christine took it upon herself to employ the idiot. Raoul had said many, many times before that Christine should stop bearing the load of other people's problems and think for herself. Christine reacted as if Raoul had rebuked God and sung praises of Satan.

"Er, no. I was referring to Mademoiselle Daae."

The maid replied in a flat, toneless voice.

"Mademoiselle has already gone out for the day. Madame is in though."

Raoul sighed. Christine was already at or on her way to the Opera.

Ah well, he would catch up with her later. Since he was already here, the least he could do would be to briefly talk to Madame Valarius.

Raoul was suddenly electrified with a brain storm.

In fact, Madame herself would probably be able to read the note! She had lived in Sweden for a few years with her late husband! After all, that's how the Daae and the Valarius families had met!

Raoul nodded and dismissed the maid, who was only too happy to devote herself to any task but talking to Raoul.

Raoul knocked on the door, desperately hoping that she would be awake.

To his relief, Raoul heard her old, broken voice rasp, "Come in."

Raoul quietly opened the door and peered inside. It seemed that Madame was doing better today. Her hair was brushed and spilled out in silver waves over the clean white of the pillow and comforter. She was propped up into a sitting position, looking out of the window, which was open for once, across the horizon of Parisian rooftops. The warm air and the sounds of Paris spilled into and mixed with the stale, dusty air of the room.

Raoul bowed.

"Good morning Madame. I trust I find you well?"

Madame Valarius gently smiled and turned her wrinkled face to fix her clouded blue eyes on Raoul.

"As well as I can be, my dear. Dearest Raoul, how long has it been? How are you?"

Raoul pulled a nearby stool close to the bed and took Madame Valarius' hand.

"I've been very well. Madame, in truth, I've come to ask you a favor."

Madame Valarius' smile slid off her face and she turned to look at the cracked celling.

"I'm sorry Raoul, I truly am. But I cannot give you my blessing.'

Raoul sat up in shock.

"Madame, what do – "

"I cannot knowingly let Christine marry you when she has been chosen for a higher calling."

"Marry? Madame Valarius, that's not why…That…I…" Raoul bit his lip. "What do you mean by 'higher calling'?"

Madame looked at Raoul in surprise.

"Why you already know! Christine told me herself that she told you." Madame closed her eyes and smiled. "Christine has been chosen by heaven to be taught by the Angel of Music."

Raoul cleared his throat.

"Er, Madame Valarius. With all due respect… You and I both know that this angel business… It's all in Christine's mind. She's an extraordinarily talented woman and she can't –"

Madame Valarius placed a finger over Raoul's lips.

"Shhhh… What you're saying is nonsense. You need to trust in God, Raoul! This entire affair is not nearly as out of the ordinary as a virgin carrying a child, and you believe that, no?"

Raoul silently nodded.

Madame moved her hand to gently pat Raoul's cheek.

"There you see? Our Lord works in mysterious ways and our Christine is certainly worthy to receive His blessing."

Raoul silently nodded and waited for Madame Valarius to continue.

"Ah and what a blessing! Her Angel was sent by Monsuir Daae himself, God rest his soul, he told Christine this himself many years ago."  
"He?"

"Yes! Oh and what an Angel! From what Christine has said, he possessed the most angelic voice ever known to mortal ears! Isn't our girl a lucky one? And all she has to do in exchange for this blessing is to keep her soul forever pure and untainted by mortal vices."

Madame Valarius beamed at Raoul.

"Isn't that the most wonderful pact anyone could make with Heaven? That's why I told Christine, don't risk angering the Angel. I understand that you hold feelings for Christine, but she cannot return them, do you see? I'm only trying to warn you before your feelings for her become serious. Do you understand, Raoul?"

Raoul nodded, not convinced in the least but to pacify the old woman before him.

"Er, I do. Actually Madame," Raoul said in a forced, cheery tone, "I was wondering if you can read Swedish?"

Madame Valarius nodded.

"I can't say that I know as much as I once did but I certainly could puzzle it out. Why?"

"I was hoping that you could read this for me."

Raoul placed the clipping into her soft, wrinkled hands.

"I received this in the mail today and have no clue whatsoever what it says."

"Why don't you ask Christine? She's far more fluent than I am."

"That's what I… I… I don't want to worry her in case it's something troublesome."

Madame Valarius nodded and turned her attention to the thin, wrinkled paper.

The silence was interrupted only by the sounds coming from the street below.

Madame's lips moved silently as she traced the single sentence with a fragile, crooked finger.

Raoul lifted his eyes to examine the scene before him outside the window. He could see the golden roof of the Opera Gardier from here. Christine was only a few blocks away.

Ah, he would see the beautiful Christine soon enough. First he would see whatever it was that Firman wanted with him, then he would be off to wherever Christine was!

"Raoul, I believe I've got it."

Madame Valarius looked up at Raoul, her brow a tangle of wrinkles.

"It's quite strange. As close as I can translate, it says: The songbird has been caged. Withdraw."

She cocked her head.

"Now what could that mean? Is it some code you have with your friends?"

Raoul reached for the clipping and looked at the black type.

"No, my friends and I don't do things like this. I'll have to figure it out. Whoever sent this, this _E_ , he clearly wanted to ensure I read it, he mailed the clipping to me. I simply have no clue whatever the man, or woman, could mean by it."

Raoul stood up and gracefully bowed to kiss Madame Valarius' lined hands.

"Thank you so much, Madame. I am eternally grateful for your help."  
Madame smiled.

"My pleasure, my dear boy. Come visit me again soon."  
"I will."

Raoul walked to the door.

"Have a pleasant day Madame, and my prayers are with you for your speedy recovery."

"Thank you Raoul, you have a most wonderful day yourself."

Just as Raoul turned the dull, brass door knob, he heard Madame call out after him,

"Raoul, remember what I told you about Christine."

Raoul nodded.

"Don't worry Madame, I won't forget." He replied, closing the door after him.


	34. Chapter 34

**A/N Please review! And many, many thanks to my loyal readers and bigger thanks to those who leave a review! Anyway I'm quite happy with how this chapter turned out (many thanks to my lovely sister and beta whatswiththemustache) and I'd love to hear your thoughts!**

Raoul walked up the steps of the Opera Populaire, deep in thought.

 _The songbird has been caged. Withdraw._

What on God's green Earth could that possibly refer to? Written in Swedish as well!

Raoul sighed.

He hoped he could figure it out soon. What if it was something time sensitive? He needed to take care of this _E_ as soon as he possibly could.

Ah well, he had other business to attend to now. He looked up at the extravagant building and thought of Christine. Although it was certainly beautiful, she didn't belong here, trapped under the theater's green dome. He understood that she loved to sing and preform, although he couldn't understand it in the least, but she belonged in the country, among the flora and fauna. Not in the city, lost in a sea of faces. Well, with any luck that would change soon enough. Raoul walked between the tall marble columns, pulled open the huge elaborately carved doors and stepped inside the lobby of the Populaire.

Raoul removed his hat and coat and handed it to a nearby porter. He took a deep breath and walked into the inner foyer.

Once inside, Raoul stopped suddenly and blinked in surprise.

There were people… everywhere. Like black bees in a golden hive they scurried in a mad rush to go to their destinations, clustering and swarming frantically. Workers running here and there, performers huddled in small groups talking amongst themselves, and… the _Gendarmerie_? What could they possibly be doing here?

Something was very wrong.

Raoul briskly walked towards and up the marble staircase, heading towards the managers' offices.

As he feared, the populace recognized their patron and a chorus of voices rose up in greeting.

"Monsuir de Chagny!"

"Viscount de Chagny, what is to be done?"

"Monsuir le Viscount, have you heard?"

Raoul raised a hand in recognition to his public but dare not stop. He knew that he looked the part of a massive prick in the eyes of all there, but if he stopped to greet anyone, stopped to answer any question, he would be swarmed with questions to which he had no answer.

He ran up the marble staircase and darted into the nearby corridor to the administrative wing of the opera. To Raoul's luck, by the time most people were too busy to take a closer look to the man who hid his face with his sleeve and those who did recognize Raoul found that by the time they lifted their eyes to verify that it was indeed the Viscount de Chagny, he was already gone.

Raoul breathed a sigh of relief as he neared the managers' offices. But, as he turned into the bright, elaborately decorated hallway, he was dismayed to find a horde of people at the door of the managers' office, banging on the pristine gold doors and shouting for the cowards to show themselves to their employee. Raoul's gut clenched at the thought of pushing himself into that mad crowd.

But what other choice did he have?

Raoul steeled himself and pushed through the large crowd. His walking cane, something that Phillippe insisted Raoul use out in public, came in useful for once. He was able to pry open a direct, albeit tight, passage through the mass of angry bodies and reached his elusive prize – the door to the office.

He gripped the cane once again and used the shiny brass head to rap on the the door.

Raoul attempted to make his voice distinguishable from the din.

"Firman? Andre? It's Raoul. Open the door." He shouted.

The people closest to Raoul stopped their own shouting to look at Raoul in surprise. A millisecond of stillness in his immediate vicinity, then they started descending on Raoul, pulling at his clothes and demanding answers to questions Raoul couldn't hear or understand.

He struck the door with even greater force and furiously tried the knob.

"Andre! It's me! Raoul de Chagny!"

The fervor rapidly spread and frighteningly soon, it was Raoul who was surrounded entirely by a screaming, furious crowd.

After several more attempts, Raoul finally saw the door crack open.

"It is you Raoul! Come in quickly."

Raoul needed no further invitation. He frantically pulled away from the mob and launched himself into the room before him.

As soon as Raoul made it past the door, Andre slammed the door and deftly locked it.

Thankfully, the shouts were now distinctly muffled.

Raoul sighed in relief, sat down in the chair opposite Andre's immediately polished desk, and mopped his face with his handkerchief.

"Ah Andre, thank you."

Andre slumped onto his leather chair and rubbed his temples.

"No, Monsieur de Chagny, it is I who owes you a great deal of gratitude. Thank you for coming. If you hadn't, I would be in more trouble than I already am in."

Raoul placed his elbows on the desk and leaned toward the ashen Andre.

"You wrote to me that your problem was of a delicate nature and you couldn't commit it to ink. Well, I am here now. What's your trouble? And what happened to merit all," he gestured to the door, " _this_?"

Andre's reedy lips tightened into a thin line.

"Well, for one thing, a stage hand has been found dead. His name was…" Andre picked up a pile of papers and shuffled though them.

Raoul sat up in shock.

"Dead? Here at the Populaire?"

"Yes, dead."

Andre suddenly paused and frowned at some paper in the stack. As Raoul sat there stock-still, not yet having fully processed the morbid news, Raoul heard Andre mutter to himself.

"Caesar? He was stolen last night as well?"

Andre turned his head and called out,

"Rémy!"

A more than slightly rumpled, but nevertheless well-dressed young man with rather thick, gold rimmed specacles burst in through the door that connected Andre to the other administrative offices.

"You called, Monsieur Andre?"

"Why wasn't I told that one of our horses was stolen?"

"Ah, Mon-Monsieur, with all due respect you were. You're holding the paper right now in your hand."

"There is too many damned notes for my taste! Next time an incident of this magnitude occurs, heaven forbid, tell me yourself!"

Andre dramatically slumped into his confortable chair and massaged his temples. With a wave of his hand, he dismisssed the unfortunate Rémy.

"Now get back to whatever it was you were doing."

"Yes, I was j-just writing a draft for a press statement, sir!" M. Rémy squeaked before dashing back to the safety behind the door.

Andre settled back into his papers.

"Terribly sorry you had to witness that, Viscount. I am unfortunate enough to employ the greatest buffoon in Paris." He murmured.

"Ah, yes. Buquet. Joseph Buquet was murdered. He worked the backdrops. He was found hung behind an old set piece for _Le roi de Lahore_. He –"

"Hung?"

"Yes Viscount. Found hung by the neck. The poor man's neck was broken. But Raoul, that's not why I called you here… I… Forgive me, but where were you last night?"

Raoul cocked his head in confusion.

"Surely you don't suspect me?"

"Mon-Monsieur le Viscount, of course _I_ do not," Andre hastily replied, "but if…if you will tell me where you were, I will explain my reasons for asking."

Raoul narrowed his eyes suddenly feeling as if there were too many eyes examining him intently. He ignored the feeling, trying not to take offense at Andre's insinuation – but of course, it was silly to read into this too much! This was probably just some sort of hypothetical question – a rhetorical query – surely, that was it. Raoul took a breath, keeping his tone mild and unoffended as he spoke.

"I was a home. I supped, worked in my study, and retired at about eleven in the evening."

Andre's eager face visible sunk. In a distraught voice, he replied, "So you have absolutely no one to vouch for your whereabouts last night?"

"I have my brother and some of the servants."

Andre rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Well, that's better than no one, I suppose. Did you at least see Mademoiselle Daaé last night?"

 _Did I see…?_

This time, Raoul could not keep the indignation and sudden irritation he felt from appearing in his expression. He scowled at Andre, rising from his chair and leaning slightly over the desk. Now, this was going too far! Even for a theoretical sort of question, to actually imply that Raoul would…? As if Christine was...? Preposterous! To even think of the idea that Andre could assume Christine was to Raoul what Sorrelli was to Phillipe! It sent a sharp surge of anger through him, abrupt and unanticipated.

Raoul scowled at Andre, stood up, and leaned over the desk.

Apparnently, Raoul's anger suprised Andre as much as it did himself. Before the situation could escalate, the manager raised his hands in mock submission and hastily continued,

"Monsieur le Viscount, please forgive my implication, but the situation is desperate. If she can testify to your whereabouts last night, it would greatly help."

Andre's apology seemed thin to Raoul, and then man's words also seemed to make the situation seem more serious than he'd thought. But with the insult to Christine still fresh in his mind, Raoul ignored the fact that he was beginning to feel more than slightly wrong-footed in this conversation. Instead, he replied in a low voice,

"No, I did not and I do resent your implication. For the record, I treat Mademoiselle Daaé with the utmost respectability. It would never cross my mind to infringe on her modesty. She was tired after last night's performance so she, I assume, went home early."

Raoul paused, distracted. Much of his anger quickly receided as he remembered his love. Puzzeled, Raoul looked around the office as if Christine were hiding behind one of the fixtures before turning to Andre, head cocked, and continuing.

"Speaking of Mademoiselle Daaé, where is she?"

Andre reached back to nervously rub the back of his head.

"Er, she's… Well… Monsieur… We…We haven't seen her since last night's performance. We assumed that she was with you, but if she isn't…"

Andre studied the nearby wall as if it held the answer to the mysteries of the universe. Raoul was almost tempted to glance at it too, but for only a moment. After that – Andre's words registered with him slowly, their implications and assumptions slow to unfold. Before Raoul could speak, Andre continued.

"You see Monsieur de Chagny, we haven't been able to find Christine Daaé anywhere. This morning, her dressing room was found ransacked and nearly empty of her personal effects. And you see… The reason I had you come out here personally…"

Andre lifted his eyes to gaze at Raoul with a curious mix of sympathy and fear.

"I'm so sorry."

A booming voice behind Raoul was suddenly entered the conversation.

"You see Monsieur le Viscount, Joseph Buquet was found dead with _this_ in his hand."

A crumpled piece of off white cloth was thrown in front of Raoul onto the bright, caramel wood.

Raoul hesitantly touched it, finding it pleasantly soft for such a foreboding object.

Seconds ticked by, and the sinking feeling in the pit of Raoul's stomach only grew. He was not a man easily afraid, having stared into the cold eyes of death multiple times out at sea, but this little bit of cloth curiously had the power to challenge any and all bravery Raoul ever dared lay claim to. Raoul turned his head to see who had spoken earlier and the dispair in his chest intensified at the sight of not one, but three armed Gendarmerie. Raoul presumed that they had listened to the entire exchange between Andre and himself. Andre…

A thick lump formed in Raoul's throat. He had been tricked! That bastard Andre had tricked Raoul into coming here! He had been duped into walking straight into the lion's den! With no knowledge at all as to his supposed crime!To which his guilt presumably hinged on what evidence the Gendarmerie had found.

 _The evidence…_

His gaze fell once more on the immaculate fabric.

He would have to find out eventually…

Raoul gritted his teeth and summoned each and every bit of courage remaining in his body before he picked the small cloth up and began to unfold it.

A second passed and suddenly Raoul's hands moved of their own accord to violently fling it away, anything to distance himself from it.

Raoul slumped into his chair in shock and horror.

But even then Raoul couldn't escape the terrifying sight. The seemingly innocent fabric lay stretched out on the desk, revealing its secrets in their entirety for all present to see.

Three damning words were skillfully embroidered into a corner of the creased handkerchief:

 _Raoul de Chagny_


	35. Chapter 35

**A/N Sorry for the prolonged update! I got back in the country a week ago and was too tired to type until recently. Hope you like it and let me know if you do! Also, ChildOfMusicAndDreams - Yes, Christine is due for an appearance in the next chapter. :)**

* * *

As one scene unfolded in the light, another unfolded in the dark. Behind the painted plaster, behind the bricked wall, in that other world, all was still. But, a closer look revealed that one shadow was stemmed from the absence of color, as opposed to the absence of light. Indeed this dissimilar shadow quietly leaned against the bricks which made up the wall of Monsieur Andre's office. So perfectly disguised was this mysterious being that one could walk through the dark, molded corridor right past him, and not even guess at his existence. The only crack in the impersonal façade of his dress was the exposure of half of the shadow's face. But even this small bit of pale flesh had been partially erased. The man had pulled his hat low and his collar high, but even so, he had not left much of his face to the stranger's imagination.

But strangely enough, today, the shadow walked maskless.

Erik listened intently to the muffled voices behind him. It gave him a wicked, but a sweet satisfaction to hear that idiot manager play directly into the trap Erik had lain out. As if a handkerchief was iron clad evidence for someone's guilt.

Erik snorted.

People were such imbeciles.

But they were such perfectly, such wonderfully _predictable_ imbeciles. No, the boy wouldn't be incarcerated, but he would have one hell of a time.

Erik's mouth twitched into a smile.

Maybe the dandy would even be imprisoned for a while. Let _him_ have a bit of hell in his life. It was nothing compared to what _some_ people had to endure in their lives, but it was something. It wasn't as if the French court system would permanently imprison a member of _such_ status and wealth, of _such_ an _important_ family. No, the Comte de Chagny certainly wouldn't let our little Viscount rot in prison. No, he would buy the young _Raoul's_ , Erik's features twisted into disgust at the very thought of his rival's name, _Raoul's_ innocence.

Suddenly, Erik heard shouting.

 _Ah, so it has begun._

Erik turned around and carefully removed a bit of loose stone to better hear the scene that was unfolding behind him. Much to his delight, the boy didn't seem overly thrilled at the prospect of being accused for a crime he didn't commit.

The dandy was begging, he was _imploring_ them to listen to reason, to logic. Erik shook his head. The boy knew so little about the world. As if these idiot Gendarmes would listen to logic. All they knew was how to find the most obvious and easiest solution to a case. And who was the highest bidder in justice.

 _Well, it's high time that Monsieur le Viscount learned of the world._

Ah, now one of the Gendarme was getting impatient. He was saying to _face the facts_ , to come along _quietly_ and _admit_ his guilt.

As if a member of the nobility, so optimistic about the justice system, would stand for _that_. Erik heard the sound of a chair being roughly shoved back as the boy began to desperately entreat the company about his rights, the burden of proof, and of the _clearly_ insufficient evidence. He called for M. Andre to back him up, begged for an ally.

Instead, de Chagny made the Gendarme impatient.

Erik jumped as something heavy was slammed against a spot not two feet away from himself.

Then all was silent for a moment.

He heard the Gerarme say in a gruff voice,

"You lot _saw_ him resist arrest. What was I to do? It is my duty to bring in a suspect, is it not?"

A heavy silence hung in the air.

The voice grew more hostile.

"Is it _not_?"

Erik heard murmurs of agreement throughout the room. He heard Andre say what a pity it was that the pressure was too great on the opera's patron, what a shame it was.

Erik shook his head as he carefully replaced the stone before walking away, the feeling of triumph and satisfaction quickly growing in his heart.

 _Ah well, perhaps that will teach the boy to keep out of other people's business. I daresay that he'll be too distraught after a good while in jail to think of Christine. And if not, it is not as if I did not give him ample warning._

Erik smirked.

The boy _did_ get ample warning, which was more than most unfortunate enough to cross Erik could say about him.

 _And only a complete fool wouldn't be able to decipher it. Child's play!_

It was so terribly _obvious_ after all, perhaps even too obvious. _The songbird is caged, withdraw._ And in Swedish.

What else could to fool even possibly interpret it as? If he was too dull to grasp its meaning, well then, perhaps Erik was doing the Viscount the favor of showing him what ignorance and slow wit does in this world.

Erik was startled out of his thoughts as he heard a soft voice call his name.

Erik's instincts immediately kicked in and he swiftly whipped around, Punjab lasso in hand, to face this new threat.

Nadir's familiar face greeted his own, his features twisted into some semi-balance of friendliness and amiability. But beneath that, there were the familiar emotions of fear and disgust, repulsively distorting the entire picture.

Of course, Erik's face was on full display, no wonder the Persian looked so. But in Erik's current state of mind, he wasn't about to give Nadir any peace of mind by covering his face or turning away.

Instead, Erik casually crossed his arms and asked,

"Daroga, what did I tell you about leaving Erik alone?"

Nadir's mouth tightened and he straightened himself with as much dignity as the repulsive look on his would allow him to.

"Erik," he asked quietly, "what have you done?"

"Well my dear Persian, let me think. There's so much to do as a ghost, you know. Well, I've been working on Don Juan Triumphant. Act three is nearly complete, then all I have to do is write act four and then I will be free to die whenever the fancy strikes me."

"Christine Daaé, Erik? And Joseph Buquet? Erik, we've discussed this! I thought that you were settling down in your old age, that this Opera Ghost nonsense was finally coming to an end! Then you go and abduct Christine Daaé!"

Hot anger seasoned with anxiety struck Erik.

Erik closed the difference between Nadir and himself in two quick strides, grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, and used his considerable height to lift Nadir up and off the floor. Nadir instinctively grabbed onto Erik's wrists. Erik pulled Nadir's face closer to his horrific own.

"If you lie to me I swear on your Allah that it shall be the last thing you do. What is it that makes you imply that I have abducted Christine, not our glorious _patron_ as the gendarmes believe?"

But the Persian was not to be so easily intimidated. He glared at Erik as best as he could in his current position and replied,

"Well, Miss Daaé disappeared shortly after being seen in your company. I suspected you but didn't want to confront you until after I had further evidence. So, I crept down to see for myself and I heard the sound of a woman crying coming from your house."

"You great booby! You grow senile in your old age, Daroga! Erik would never kidnap anyone, especially not the lovely Christine Daaé! And I believe that I have told you too many times to _stay away from Erik's house_. You are not welcome."

"Erik, do you mean to tell me that you have no interest in Christine Daaé? It's quite obvious; Don't play games with me. Don't underestimate my intelligence as such."

Erik bared his teeth.

"So simply because Erik has an interest in Mademoiselle Daaé, and she leaves the opera unexpectedly, you think it must have been because Erik kidnapped her?"

The Persian neglected to reply.

Erik released Nadir, who fell to the floor. Erik lifted his chin and looked down upon the fallen Persian.

"Yes Daroga, Christine Daae is indeed in my house. But I did not kidnap her. She _came to me_ of her _own free will_. As a matter of fact, for the past _six months_ she has been visiting my humble abode."

The Persian quickly stood up and brushed the dust off of his coat as he spoke.

"Erik, forgive me if I find it hard to believe. If this is true, I… I am sorry. But, how… To be completely frank, would you believe it if you were me?"

Erik sobered and turned away, lost in thought. A moment later, slowly he replied,

"If you don't believe me, ask Madame Giry. She is one of my… Operatives in the opera house and a while ago she had the same concerns you did. But since dispelling said concerns, she has been of great use to me, concerning Christine Daae."

"Madame Giry? The ballet mistress?"

"Daroga, you grow senile in your own age. The good Madame Giry used to be the ballet mistress. But, she wanted to do something less taxing in her older age. So I spoke on her behalf to the managers about getting her a position as a box keeper." Erik's mouth twitched. "My box keeper in fact."

Erik fixed his mask back in place.

"When you do decide to call on her, tell her that Erik sent you. I will inform the good Madame to expect you."

Erik looked over his shoulder.

"Do not follow me if you know what's good for you Daroga. I have some quality time to spend with a person _very much of interest_ to me right now. Good day."

Immediately, he heard Nadir call after him in a low voice,

"Joseph Buquet. Why Erik? _Why_? You promised me, you swore to me that you would not kill again. Remember I saved your life!"

Erik paused.

After a moment, he carefully replied,

"Daroga, if my eavesdropping serves me well, and I know it does, Buquet was found reeking of alcohol, was he not? And everyone in the theater knows of his domestic issues. Who is to say that he did not simply take the coward's way out of this wrenched existence? Who is to say that he didn't get _caught_ in _problems of his own creation_?"

Erik turned to glance at Nadir with his good side.

"Why must you, my oldest friend, constantly blame me for everything? These past years I have been more than faithful to what I swore to you. Have I given you reason to doubt me?" Erik asked quietly.

Nadir stood there, gaping at Erik like a fish.

Erik watched with internal amusement as the Persian clearly struggled to gather his thoughts.

"Erik, my apologies. I – Perhaps I should have not jumped to conclusions. But I will look into the matter further. And Erik?"

Nadir paused,

" _He_ will not question you as I do. _He_ will simply assume and act on _his_ assumptions. _He_ will hunt you down."

"I know, Daroga. I know."

Erik paused and turned away.

"Ask Madame Giry about Christine. I assure you she will correlate my statements."

And with that, Erik began to walk, his dark figure getting fainter and fainter until the darkness swallowed him whole.


	36. Chapter 36

_A/N: Sorry for the late update guys! A lot of stuff has been happening in my life recently aka I finally transferred from a community college and am now going to uni! It's been an... experience so far to say the least. Anyway, let me know what you think of this chapter as we (finally) check in on the state of poor Christine..._

Christine sat on the sofa and watched the candlelight play with the shadows on the wall. She hadn't moved in God alone knew how many hours and gave the impression of being a statue, save for the subtle rise and fall of her chest. Indeed, her eyes stared straight, she was as pale as the marble such statues are composed of, and, had someone laid their hand over her own, would have been icy to the touch. But if one looked closely enough, one could see the movement that betrayed her humanity. Her hands trembled and her upper lip quivered.

Christine had been waiting for Erik to return for, what seemed to her, over a day now. If Christine had before grumbled over the lack of clocks in Erik's home, she now cursed it. She had never known exactly how slowly time could move when one was left entirely to one's own devices without the natural cycle of the day. At least before Erik had been a source of company and conversation, even in the early days of their friendship when she had feared him. She started in remembrance. Their friendship! Oh God!

Christine's lip now visibly trembled and tears threatened to spill over. What was she to do? She had only tried to make things better, but had somehow only made them worse!

A small voice protested at this last thought.

 _He's the one who struck you. He's the one who became angry after you tried to mend things. You're not to blame for the aftermath._

Christine grasped onto this, if only as a matter of self-defense from her own guilt, to escape the internal pain. It was true, she could not blame him for becoming angry with her, but he had no right to treat her so!

Oh if only Christine could do it over again! If only she could turn the clock back however many hours and return to that wonderful life she had led only a few days ago! A blossoming career, a truly wonderful friendship, a beau who loved her…

Raoul!

For the first time since she had taken off Erik's mask, Christine remembered about her poor suitor.

 _He must be so worried! What will I tell him_ _?!_

Somewhere in some distant corner of the house, some piece of furniture or another creaked. In the dead silence of Erik's home, it seemed to Christine to have the magnitude of a gunshot. For the first time in countless minutes Christine moved. She started quite heavily and almost leaped from the sofa. The sudden movement agitated her delicate condition and immediately the dull pain in her chest began to throb at a much greater amplitude.

Christine quickly turned her head to stare at the door. Once again she froze and any color drained from her cheeks, regardless of the pain in her ribcage. A few minutes passed in frozen silence. Only when Christine was satisfied that no one was yet coming through the door, that that dreaded moment was still in the future, did she take her seat again.

Alas! Let us take a moment to lament the condition of poor, unhappy Christine! Locked away in a now hostile underground realm of fascination and terror, not knowing what the next minute might bring! Too unhappy to read or sing, yet not unhappy enough to consummate her unfortunate state with a fashionable and somewhat gratifying suicide! Stolen from the world and betrayed by curiosity!

Unable to do anything else, so trapped by guilt and anxiety as Christine was, she sat down on the hard fabric and waited.

* * *

A few hours later found Christine in the same spot in the same position. Until she heard another noise. Her head swiveled around to locate its source. Christine froze in terror.

 _No… It can't be_.

With even greater intensity, driven by fear and dread, Christine listened as keenly as her ears would let her.

To her alarm, it was.

Faint but distinct echos could be heard from the outside. And they were getting louder.

Christine's heart pounded in her chest. Although the echoes grew louder, she could hardly hear them through the blood rushing past her ears.

Even if Christine was seated, the room swam. She clutched the armrest in an attempt to stabilize herself and pushed away the encroaching blackness at the edge of her vision with all her might. Suddenly she found that she wasn't getting enough air. She gulped in the warm, stale air greedily, ignoring the protesting pain in her chest.

Christine dropped her head onto her arms and closed her eyes. She tried to calm down. She forced herself to take deep breaths, tried to chase away the panic and anxiety. She couldn't face Erik like this. No, she couldn't, she _wouldn't_ let him see her in this state.

But there was no time! She froze as she heard a key scrape in the lock. Christine's mind was empty of everything she had thought for this moment. All of her imagined responses, each and every prepared phrase escaped her now that the time had come.

As the door opened, Christine pushed herself up. Upon seeing Erik walk through the door through the corner of her eye, involuntarily, Christine dropped her gaze to her hands neatly folded in her lap. To her distress, they were trembling. She clasped them tighter and prayed that it was not overly noticeable.

Although Christine dared not turn her head, she attuned herself entirely to the sound of Erik's footsteps. Once the door closed, she heard nothing but the sound of their breathing. Her light, quick panting intermingling with his deep, slow, almost silent breath.

There they were, in a silent standoff, neither willing to make the first step.

Suddenly, Christine heard Erik whisper,

"Christine."

She made no move to acknowledge this.

Silence.

Then quick, light footsteps almost too quiet to hear even in the unnatural quiet.

Suddenly, Erik entered her field of vision.

Christine studied the fabric on her dress even more attentively.

Erik knelt down and looked up at Christine. Unwillingly, her eyes flickered to his face and their eyes met. But only for a brief moment.

"Christine… I – I am… so sorry."

All of Christine's mental torture, all of her guilt and pain, subsided in surprise. Whatever she had expected Erik to say, it certainly wasn't that he was sorry.

Neither looked at each other as he continued,

"It was my… I should not have… I should have been more understanding and patient. It is no excuse but please understand that my temper… And my – my face. My face has cost me all that is attributed to most people. When you have gone through all that I have, even if the need to isn't there, you still act out of self-defense."

Erik paused and Christine snuck a quick, unthinking glance at him. His eyes were downcast and his lips were tightly pressed together. She noted that he looked almost as pale and solemn as she was.

"I cannot ask you to forgive me right now, nor can you ask me to forgive you entirely now. But please, understand that I truly regret that night and the events that followed."

Christine flinched in surprise as she felt Erik take her hands and cover them with his own. She looked up to meet his gaze. Oh God, he looked so pitiful. The visible part of Erik's face was the absolute definition of sorrow and misery. He truly did look repentant. But what could she say?  
Christine swallowed.

"Erik, I – "


	37. Chapter 37

_A/N Hey look I'm actually a day early! My apologies in advance that this is not a trend which will continue. A big thank you to everyone who has reviewed and continues to review. You guys make my week. Please read and review!_

* * *

Erik watched Christine's face as he waited for her response. God, what had he done? What had they both done? Everything had been fine; damn it all it had been nearly perfect before all this! And now look at the two of them! Nearly strangers and each terrified of the other. How had it all gone so wrong? Erik's train of thought halted as Christine moved her hand up to touch her high necked collar. Her lips tightened and she turned her gaze upon some distant corner of the room.

What Erik would have given to know what was going through her head! Christine oscillated between the two extremes of being ridiculously easy to read and nearly inscrutable. Of course now, when their relationship stood at a dangerous crossroads, Christine would have mastered the art of being entirely indecipherable.

The silence was nearly unbearable. Erik had attempted to explain and apologize, but blathering away like a senseless fool would not bridge the rift between them. Christine had to communicate with _him_ if they were to get anywhere. Nor could he push her for a response. No, he had to coax her out of the walls she had built around herself or all would be lost. All because of his accursed face!

Oh if only God had been merciful and had granted him a normal face! Not even a handsome or mildly attractive face, but a normal human face! Then the whole mess would have been avoided all together! Then Erik would be able to court Christine like any other man! To be able to take Christine by the arm and stroll with her along the Bois in the sunshine!

Ah, but he could not lose himself to useless fantasizing now. There was too much at stake.

But for all his promises that he would not press Christine to reply, the temptation was simply too much for any man to bear.

"Christine?"

The sound of his voice had apparently startled Christine, almost as if she had forgotten he was there. Erik's lips tightened in anxiety and he had to bite his tongue to avoid blurting something out in sheer desperation. This was worse than he had hoped. An unhelpful inner voice hissed in sarcasm,

 _Well, you did attack her._

But Christine had removed Erik's mask! He had warned her to not touch the mask! She fully understood that touching Erik's mask was forbidden!

 _Ah you are indeed a gentleman. Viscount Raoul de Chagny would never have assaulted the beautiful and delicate Christine_.

Erik felt hot anger rise to accompany the prickling grief. Perhaps if that bastard had never come along, Christine would have been satisfied to never know what Erik hid under the mask! Perhaps this whole ordeal could have been avoided entirely! Ah, but Erik got his vengeance! Erik –

"Erik."  
The sound of Christine's voice quickly pulled Erik back to the small room.

Erik immediately locked eyes with Christine, desperately praying that the hopeful on his face and in his eyes did not seem to be entirely pathetic.

Christine cleared her throat.

"I – To be honest, I don't know where to begin. Or how I feel about things to begin with."

Christine dropped her gaze.

"I wish that I could turn the clock back and go back to where things were. But I – You hurt me Erik."

Undoubtedly Erik's protesting feelings had revealed themselves on his face because she interrupted herself and quickly said,

"No that's not what I mean! Please… Please give me a chance to sort through my thoughts and explain."

Christine leaned her head into her hands and massaged her temples.

"Erik, please understand I take full responsibility for my actions. I do not deny that I should never have even thought about taking off your mask. I am a free woman, I and I alone am responsible for my actions and choices as well as the aftermath."

Christine paused to deeply inhale.

"I cannot say what came over me that night. I truly do not know what power possessed me to remove your mask. I will not lie to you. I did think of what might be under your mask and I am ashamed to say that the thought frequently crossed my mind. But I had not planned on acting upon the impulse in such a way. I had planned to go about it quite differently. But what is done is done, there is no use in wondering what might have been had I made a different decision."

Christine's bright blue eyes met his gaze and, to his great chagrin, Erik's heart skipped a beat as he looked up at her.

"Erik, after I regained consciousness you jumped on me as I was apologizing to you. You stood there listening and then suddenly, you… You changed. It was almost as if a demon had possessed you. When you were in that state, you…"

Christine swallowed and her lips tightened before she continued.

"You gave me considerable injury. Considerable _physical_ injuries."

Did he truly wish to know what he had done to Christine when he had experienced temporary insanity? No, if at all possible, he would pretend that he had never done such a thing, that Christine had suffered no ill effects by his hand. But no amount of denial could reverse what had happened.

"What – " Erik's voice cracked, "What injuries did you sustain?"

Erik felt a stab in his chest as he noticed Christine's eyes narrow.

"Aside from nearly choking me to death, you broke a few of my ribs. And you bruised my throat quite a bit. I haven't tried to sing since the incident but I pray that my voice was not damaged."

Erik froze in shock. Yes, as much as he tried to push it out of his head, he did remember, albeit barely, being snapped out of his madness by Christine begging him to stop and then hearing her gasp for breath. But breaking her ribs? Potentially damaging her voice? All in addition to all but completely destroying their relationship?

Things could not possibly be any worse between them.

It was truly a wonder that Christine was being so civil towards him. Hell, if anyone had treated him as he had treated her, he would have killed the bastard. But, for once to be the perpetrator as opposed to the victim…

Erik was wracked with guilt. In that moment, he thought he would die of shame. Unthinkingly, Erik took Christine's hand and grasped it tightly between his own.

"Christine, words cannot possibly express how truly sorry I am. I – I did not realize that I had mistreated you so badly. Christine, I – "

Erik swallowed as he tried to rid himself of the knot that had formed in his throat.

"Christine please, please do not hate me." Erik could feel hot tears pool in his eyes, blurring the scene into watercolor. "I could not fault you if you loathed me but I could not bear it."

"Please, take pity on your poor unhappy Erik. All I wanted was to be beautiful in your eyes. For once to be a man rather than a freak. I wanted to be all that and more but… I never told you because I could not bear it if we parted company forever. It would kill me! You are my whole world Christine. Please, I beg you, find it in your heart to even have the smallest inkling of forgiveness for your unhappy Erik."

Christine too had tears streaming down her face and her upper lip trembled. However, unlike Erik, she clearly was trying to hide her sorrow. Incessantly, she wiped her tears away with the back of her delicate white hand and bit her lip in an effort to quell its tremors.

"Erik, stop please!" Christine's voice was raw with pain in her outburst, "Erik, I can't! I cannot promise you forgiveness!"

Christine pulled her hand out of Erik's to bury her face in both hands.

"Erik you nearly killed me! How can anyone to forget that! You were my dearest friend but I almost died by your hand! I don't know what to think, I don't know how to feel! I am still quite fond of you but another part of me hates you! I need time! I need – "

Christine halted as sobs wracked her body.

Erik watched in horror as his life slipped away. He quickly took a seat next to Christine and in desperation, put his arm around her heaving body. She shuttered but she did not push him away.

Tears dripped down his face but he did not have the strength to wipe them away. Oh to be without a proper nose! He did not have a handkerchief to offer Christine, as he never had a use for one!

"Christine please, please is there anything I can do? Is there any way I can fix this?"

Erik's desperation only grew at her response.

"I don't know."


	38. Chapter 38

Raoul sat forlornly in the cold, damp jail cell, clutching his head in his hands. His honey blond hair had hung over his face and clung to his cheeks with cold, nearly dried tears, but he made no effort to sweep his bangs back.

The entire life he had worked so hard to build for himself was gone, erased entirely with the careless sweep of a chance occurrence. He would find it far easier to accept if he would have truly been powerless to halt its progress. If his innocence would still be intact and his early downfall was the result of events entirely outside of his control.

But he was innocent!

Raoul had done no wrong! He was as much the victim of that man Buquet. Who could have ever thought that a man, someone who Raoul had no idea existed but a day ago, would have such an impact upon his life? He had pleaded, reasoned, and screamed until his voice was hoarse _that he was innocent_! That he had absolutely nothing to do with any of it!

But no one listened.

No one cared.

For the first time in his twenty-one years, Raoul was truly alone in the world, with not a soul to support him. Even Phillipe, who surely had heard the news by now, was nowhere to be seen. The thought of his absent older brother turned Raoul's lips into a bitter grimace.  
No doubt Phillipe, with his notions about family honor and the upkeep of the de Chagny name had given his younger brother up for lost. Likely, he was in his club right now, disowning Raoul and slandering his brother's memory to anyone who cared to listen.

And what of Christine?  
Surely Christine did not believe these lies! Why had she not come to visit Raoul in this cage? Why was she not here to break the heavy silence? Had she too given up on him?

Unbidden and unwanted entirely, the image of Christine reacting to the news was conjured in Raoul's mind. He saw her mouth round in horror, her delicate white hands fly to cover her face in horror at what Raoul had allegedly done. She would turn away, no doubt, and hunch in on herself, close the door to her room and refuse to see anyone for days. She would be appalled that her beau would have gone to commit the sin of murder. Christine would only leave to go to confession and beg God to forgive her for courting such a sinner and beg for Raoul's soul to somehow be saved.

A thick lump grew in Raoul's throat and new pain constricted his chest.

 _No Christine I am innocent! I swear it before God and his angels! I swear it on anything and everything I hold holy!_

He just needed to see her, to explain to her! Surely the strength of their love was strong enough to withstand this new horror! It was!

 _Wasn't it?_

New tears filled Raoul's eyes and flowed down his cheeks, tracing the paths carved by their predecessors.

What is he to do now? Sit in this small cage and rot until the French court system had decided to hear the case? Would it be months until the Gendarmerie would come, unlock his cell, and order Raoul to follow them, only to lead him to the gallows?

Where was the justice in this cruel world? Where was the reason, the purity?

He, a member of the nobility, was not even allowed to plead his own case.

Raoul's mouth twisted into a sneer.

 _Here's your de Chagney name, Phillipe. All your talk about the sanctity of the name and I am not even allowed to use the influence to plead my own case._

Oh he was too miserable for words! In that moment, Raoul would have gladly joined Buquet in death, even if it meant condemning himself to an eternity in hell.

Luckily or unluckily, depending on one's perspective, the cell was barren of anything which could remotely aid in suicide. There one, small window was far out of Raoul's reach, the hard, iron bed was bolted to the floor, and the small table was far too lightweight for any use.

Apparently, he did not even have the privilege of the luxury of a lamp.

So Raoul was forced to simply sit there, hunched over in sorrow and indignity and only his tears for comfort, for countless hours which flowed with untold magnitude of viscosity.

* * *

Much time later, long after the sun had set and darkness flooded his small, freezing cell, Raoul heard the harsh scrape of a key in the lock. He did not even bother to look up. Likely it was feeding time for the Gerarme's stock animals. He would have some hard, stale bread thrown at his feet and a jug of warm water would be placed next to his door and then he would be barren of human company for another twelve hours.

The door was pushed open with a great creak which was like thunder to Raoul, who had heard no sound other than that of his own sorrow for far too long. The guard slowly shuffled in the room, his feet scuffing audibly along the rough, pitted stone.

But then, presumably quite a bit farther into Raoul's cell than usual, he stopped.

For the first time in days, Raoul heard the voice of another member of the human race.

"M'suir Changy, you 'ave a visit'r."  
Raoul looked up quickly in hope. A visitor! His heavy heart shed its lead casing and lept in joy! Christine! It must be!

"But, I must take you to the vis'tation cell, an' you first need 'a put t'ese on."

A pair of cold, iron shackles fell into Raoul's lap and he visibly started with the new, entirely unexpected weight on his legs.

Yes of course anything! Anything for contact with the outside world and to get out of this hell, even if just for a moment!

Raoul quickly nodded and placed the heavy metal around his hand and pressed until the locks clicked shut. He held out his hands for inspection and eagerly said,

"Pardon me Monsieur, could I be so bold as to inquire as to who has come to visit me?"

The guard shrugged his shoulders and checked that the locks were indeed secure.  
"'Ah dunno. 'Ah was just sent to fetch you, 'at's all. There wus a gentleman standing in the lobby arguing, definatly a visitor tho'gh, if 'at helps t'all."

Raoul nodded, his new good spirits slightly dampened.

"Of course, Monsieur. But thank you."  
Raoul then followed the guard out of the door and into the hopeful, golden light of the passage.


End file.
